


Still Point

by Klitch



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-06-08 03:12:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 82,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6836686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klitch/pseuds/Klitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end, they told the story in scars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a month in the country, a day by your side

**Author's Note:**

> Months ago, the theme for onedayk on Twitter was military. I thought I'd write a nice drabble. 50k later...

In the end, they told the story in scars. 

– 

_I. burns and an empty hand_

"Misaki, hurry up now." His mother tapped his arm as she passed by, grabbing a coat from off the doorknob and throwing it over his brother Minoru's shoulders. 

"I'm not going," Yata stated, glaring at the duffel bag in front of him as if its very presence was a personal affront. "We can't just run, Mom! What if soldiers come, we need to--" 

"That's exactly why we need to leave, Misaki." His mother's voice was clipped and exasperated. "It's not safe here anymore, you know that." 

Yata crossed his arms and turned his head away, chewing on his lip in irritation. His sister Megumi tugged on his sleeve and he lightly pushed her away. 

He didn't understand how things had changed so quickly. The town had been quiet once, Yata living a normal life with his mother and two half-siblings after his birth father had died falling off a roof drunk and his mother remarried, his little brother and sister born shortly afterwards. It wasn't maybe quite the way Yata had thought it would be – he felt a little out of place, sometimes, but his stepfather had been nothing but kind to him from the beginning and it even wasn't so bad being called 'big brother' sometimes. 

The war had ruined everything, creeping up unseen like a thief in the night. Yata's stepfather had enlisted in the army and been sent off to a satellite base somewhere near the capital. He'd sent them letters at first, like clockwork every two weeks, and his mother had been optimistic about how the war would surely be over soon and he would come home. Then one day the letters had abruptly stopped without any warning at all, and they'd never heard from his stepfather since. 

On top of that, word soon came of an upheaval in the Armies of the United Colors. The Green Division had defected, their captain attempting to assassinate the Golden General who led the army. The Greens had joined forces with the invading Colorless army shortly afterward and together they had begun slowly extending their influence over the rest of the country. 

The town where Yata lived was mostly unremarkable, on the border near the sea, but there was a small base belonging to the Golden Regiment housed in the center of town. Beyond that, two of the other nearby towns had already been occupied and Yata had woken up more than once hearing the sounds of the Green Division's war planes flying overhead. 

That had been when Yata's mother had finally decided that they couldn't stay here anymore. 

In short, they were running. Yata had already argued with her about twice – the United Colors were heroes, after all, and what kind of trust did that show to run away in the face of danger like this. If anything Yata thought they should all stay and fight, do what they could to defeat the enemy. His mother had not been impressed by his argument, noting that children were not allowed in the army and for good reason, and besides there was Minoru and Megumi to think of. Yata supposed she had a point, but it still rankled. 

"Misaki, if you don't finish packing--" His mother's voice cut off sharply and Yata looked up. 

"Mom?" Something in her expression made him nervous. His mother gestured at him to hush and that was when Yata heard the sound of a plane roaring overhead. Yata slid off his chair and ran for the window, staring out. Off in the distance he could see something moving through the early morning fog. 

Soldiers, marching under a blank flag. The Colorless Guard. 

Yata's mother grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him away from the window. 

"Mom.” Yata heard the shake in his voice and his mother turned to look at him. There was a smile on her face but it was tight and false and somehow that scared him more than any soldiers or planes ever had. She grabbed hold of Megumi's hand and pressed it into his, her own hands white on Minoru's. 

"Don't let go of her, Misaki." His mother stared down at him solemnly and Yata swallowed, nodding. “No matter what, don't let go of her hand.” 

Then she pulled open the door, and they ran. 

Outside the town was already in chaos, the streets a mess of people all trying to escape through the same narrow streets. There were a handful of Golden soldiers from the base who were trying in vain to restore order but the Colorless troops were already streaming through the town, cutting down anyone in their path. Yata stumbled blindly through the streets, half-carried along by the crowd, and he pulled Megumi forward along with him. 

There was a sudden hail of gunfire and Yata heard people screaming. Someone bumped into him, hard, and he could barely keep his grip on Megumi's hand. She was crying and Yata realized that he'd lost sight of his mother and Minoru. 

Somehow they made it through the town gates and out into the open fields. Yata's heart was pounding in his chest and his legs ached but he kept running, all but dragging Megumi behind him. 

There was the roar of a plane overhead, deafening, filling his ears and suddenly the sky went dark with smoke. Yata thought he heard Megumi scream as the fields around them burst into flames and he was thrown to the ground by the force of the blast. 

He felt Megumi's hand be torn from his grip, her small nails scratching against his palm moments before everything was swallowed by darkness. 

– 

“Mom?” Yata blinked slowly, trying to sit up. His limbs felt heavy and someone touched a hand to his shoulder, eased him back down. 

“Careful, careful. You're all right.” It was a woman's voice, strained, and it suddenly reminded Yata of that tight fake smile on his mother's face before they'd run out the door. 

Yata's eyes snapped open as the memories rushed back into his head. 

_His mother. The soldiers. Fire._

_Megumi._

“Where--” A sharp pain lanced up and down his back as he sat up and Yata looked around wildly, heart pounding. 

“Shh, it's all right. Here, drink.” There was a woman standing in front of him with tired eyes, her clothes covered in dust and soot. All around him Yata could see cots and blankets, the air filled with quiet moans and the smell of blood and antiseptic. 

A field hospital. 

“It's all right, you're safe now.” The words were hollow, more like an advertisement than a reassurance. “Your back is injured but you'll survive. You were one of the lucky ones.” 

“Where's Megumi?” Yata tried to swallow and couldn't, unable to get anything else past the lump in his throat. “A-and my mom, and Minoru! Where are--” 

“Get some sleep now.” The woman gave him another flat fake smile, turning around and walking away without another word. Yata didn't even turn to watch her go, staring instead down at the small red lines that were still there on his palm from where Megumi's nails had raked against the skin as her hand was torn from his. 

_It's all right,_ Yata told himself quietly. _It'll be fine. Mom and Minoru and Megumi are just at another hospital. Once I'm better I'll go find them and it'll all be okay._

Even as the words went through his mind Yata knew they were lies. He wasn't going to see any of them again. 

Megumi was gone, Megumi and Minoru and his mother, and even though the marks on his palm would fade Yata knew it was a scar. 

_II. a cellar, dark_

"What's wrong, monkey? Are you afraid?" Niki laughed as he closed the door and Fushimi could hear the small click of the lock being turned. The last bit of light winked out with the shutting of the door and then Fushimi was alone in the darkness of the cellar, nursing his bruises. 

Niki had pushed him down the steps into the cellar this time and Fushimi could feel the thin hairline of a cut along his lower jaw. It was bleeding slightly, sticky against his fingertips and he pulled his hand away with a grimace. The bleeding would stop soon enough so there was no point in worrying over it. It would clot eventually, turn into just another bruise and then fade. The wounds always did. 

There was the muffled sound of raised voices somewhere above him and the roof shook as someone on the upper floor stamped their feet. Niki rarely made any noise at all above (all the better to allow him to sneak his way back to the cellar whenever Fushimi had started to let himself relax) and Fushimi wondered if those two had a client this late in the day, on a warm summer evening when the air smelled like a powder keg about to blow. 

Niki and Kisa were arms smugglers, after all, and war was their element. Fushimi Niki gathered the weapons from places unknown, Fushimi Kisa lined up the buyers. 

Fushimi Saruhiko lived in the cellar. 

At least they hadn't sold him away yet, he supposed, though sometimes Fushimi imagined they might and he didn't really hate the idea of it. He had a real room somewhere in the big empty townhouse but he couldn't remember the last time he'd used it, the last time he'd slept in a real bed. Niki had always found it funny, leaving him in the cellar with the rats and the silence as his only company. 

Fushimi had been afraid of the dark once. He wasn't anymore. 

The commotion upstairs became louder and Fushimi scowled as he inched forward, stepping carefully to avoid running into any of the various obstacles Niki loved littering around the cellar. He stopped as his hands finally touched wood, splinters digging into his palms, and he ignored the pain as he pulled the stolen kitchen knife from his jacket. 

As far as he could tell there had once been a door here, intended for deliveries. It had been poorly boarded up and Fushimi had come across it one day purely on accident, tripping over a box and hitting the wall hard with both hands. He'd begun worrying at the wood with the knife, almost as a way of passing the time. Niki always remembered to lock the main door, after all. 

He didn't know how much time had passed when he finally smelled the smoke. 

_A fire?_ Fushimi took a couple steps towards the cellar door and then stopped. He could almost see the dark smoke creeping in from beneath the closed door and Fushimi realized that all of the noise above had abruptly ceased. He stumbled back towards the blocked door, eyes watering as his hands pressed against the wood. 

There were no sounds above now and part of him wondered if this was somehow another one of Niki's games – set the house on fire and see if Fushimi could manage to get out on his own. Or maybe Niki and Kisa had just gotten tired of dealing with Fushimi all together and had decided to move on to another town and they simply didn't see the point of dragging him along with them. 

The smoke made his eyes sting as he frantically stabbed at the wooden planks, digging his hands into the moldy wood, until he could feel blood underneath his nails. He was coughing and choking in the smoke and he wondered if he was going to die here in the dark, alone. The entire house would burn to the ground and he'd be found a charred corpse with no name, no family. Be nothing at all, right until the end. 

Then the wood abruptly broke in his grasp and he pushed against the unblocked door. It resisted for only a moment before Fushimi tumbled out into open air, gasping and coughing. His eyes watered and he staggered forward blindly, not certain where he was going only that he had to get _away._

His shaking legs finally gave out and Fushimi hit the ground hard. His head fell back and he took a deep breath as he stared upwards at the night sky above, dotted with stars. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to see stars. 

His breathing was slowing back to normal now and Fushimi placed a hand on the nearest wall to steady himself as he tried to take stock of his surroundings. Immediately his eyes were drawn to the bright orange of flames in front of him and he realized that in his disoriented state he'd made almost a complete circle around the side streets and back alleys. He was standing in between two houses immediately opposite from his own, watching the fire as it consumed the entirety of the townhouse. 

In the light of the flames he could see a squadron of soldiers standing before the front door of the house, all wearing the face covering masks that immediately marked them out as soldiers of the Green Division, and with sudden clarity Fushimi remembered a conversation he'd overheard two days prior. 

"Double crossing the Golds was bad enough, is it really wise to do such things to the Green army as well?" Kisa's lip had curled imperiously as she spoke, as if the words left a bad taste in her mouth. She had been embroidering a blanket, looking for all the world like the spoiled daughter of a rich household and not a woman who sold war for a living. Fushimi had been tied to a chair at the time with a rifle pointed at his chest, primed to go off if he moved wrong. One of Niki's little games, as always. He was fifty percent certain that it wasn't loaded but that wasn't really much of a comfort. 

"It's fine, it's fine!" Niki had laughed then, playing with the pistol in his hands as if it was a toy. "There's more profit in it this way, right? I thought that was what you liked." 

Kisa had huffed but she hadn't disagreed either and Fushimi had ignored them both and focused on breathing lightly instead. 

Clearly, the game had caught up with them at last. 

Then the front door of the townhouse slammed open, two familiar figures stumbling outside. Fushimi's fingers dug into his palms and he could feel blood soaking into his sleeves even though he didn't recall being wounded. 

One of the Green soldiers raised a hand. 

“Fire!” 

The soldiers raised their rifles as one and then the two dark shapes seemed to explode into a mess of blood and flesh. One of the soldiers approached the bodies afterward, nudging them with a foot before turning around and giving the order to throw them back into the house that was now completely engulfed in flames. 

The smoke curled into the air and obscured the stars, and Fushimi laughed until he couldn't breathe. 

_III. a bruise from a fist (and Saruhiko)_

Yata sighed and stared up at the bright sun above, trying to ignore the steady growling of his stomach. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd had a full meal but he was determined not to think about it. He was alive, after all, and that was what mattered. 

He'd been living on the streets for about three months, as far as he could guess; the days blurred together after a while. He'd spent about a week in the field hospital waiting in vain for any sign of his family before being loaded up in a truck with all the other 'unclaimed' children and sent off to an orphanage. 

The orphanage had been the worst time of all, beaten only by the day he'd lost everything he held dear. He'd been dragged off the truck and hustled into a grim-looking brick building, packed together with hundreds of other children who no one wanted. No parents ever came to take them home, only workhouses short of bodies, men checking them over like horses for sale to see who could be worked the longest before being spent. Every month or so the people in charge would herd all the kids together in a line and men would come to look at them, saying shit about 'the dignity of work' and 'supporting the army to your utmost,' but Yata hadn't been fooled. Guys like that couldn't be trusted at all and he'd known right from the start that he'd rather die than be taken away like that. 

He'd tried to rally the other kids against them – there was strength in numbers after all, and Yata had been so certain that together they could actually do something about their shitty situation. Only one of the kids had even been willing to listen to him and even that guy had been too scared to do anything but quietly cheer Yata on from the shadows. In the end when Yata had finally chosen to make his escape he had made it alone, sneaking out a window and then climbing the fence in the dead of night. 

After that Yata had managed to sneak his way onto a passing work truck, intending to get as far away as he could. He'd had big dreams, then, of traveling all the way to Shizume or even Mihashira to join the United Colors, to fight against the people who had taken everything from him. 

Where he'd ended up instead was a small refugee town nestled in the dead zone between cities. It was within sight of the train line – Yata could see the tracks from the rooftops on the northern side of town – but the next actual station was miles away in the city. The town itself was a mix of old and new, condemned buildings and ancient warehouses side by side with newer houses that very few of the residents could actually afford. The streets were old and barely paved; almost no one who lived there owned a car and even the occasional supply or delivery truck was rare. The ammunitions factory in the center of town was constantly pouring thick black smoke out into the air that made the entire town feel like it was covered in a fine layer of ash. 

Like a lot of the shabbier towns the place was also filled with street gangs and war orphans, all trying to scrabble out a living as best they could. Yata had been part of those too, at first. He'd tried his hardest, he really had. He'd figured that it couldn't be too hard to fit in. They were all in the same situation, right? They needed to look out for each other. 

Instead he'd been turned out of all the gangs one by one. Too loud, too stupid, too filled with stories of heroes and talk about family. 

_Screw those guys though,_ Yata thought darkly as he walked along the edge of the road with his hands in his pockets. He was surviving, after all, and if the hand that couldn't hold onto Megumi itched sometimes it was easy to ignore, to pretend that surviving was enough. 

It wasn't like he needed any of those guys anyhow, wasn't like he needed anyone. He was doing all right by himself, wasn't he? Yata kicked at a piece of trash, trying to ignore the persistent stinging of his empty stomach. If they didn't want him that just meant he didn't need them, that was all. 

The sound of a blaring car horn made him look up and glance towards the road. Cars were a luxury few in the town could afford, especially with the way fuel had been rationed for the war effort, and so the sight of one -- dingy and old fashioned as it was -- was a rarity. 

The car honked again and suddenly Yata realized what it was honking at. Right there in the middle of the road there was a skinny kid in glasses, crouched in the dust as if he was injured. He wasn't even looking at the car, just sitting there hunched and quiet as the car bore down upon him. 

“Look out!” Yata's legs were moving before he could even stop to think, one hand twitching almost unconsciously. The car honked again and there was a squealing of tires as Yata and the skinny kid both tumbled back onto the sidewalk in a tangle of limbs and dirt. 

“That was close,” Yata said as he sat up, wincing slightly. He could tell without looking that he'd probably bruised his knees and elbows a little but nothing seemed broken so there wasn't anything to worry about. He looked over at the kid he'd just saved, who was slowly working himself into a sitting position. “You all right?” 

Yata wasn't sure what exactly he'd expected – gratitude, maybe, or at least a shaky smile in return for Yata risking his life to save some kid he didn't even know from being squashed by a car. But the one thing he definitely hadn't expected was the ice cold glare the kid was giving him instead. 

“Stupid brats!” The sound of a car door slamming made Yata flinch slightly. The car that had almost hit them had stopped at the side of the road and the man who got out was broad-shouldered and red-faced. “What the hell was that? That's why kids like you should be in the workhouses, not the streets!” 

“Hey!” Yata jumped to his feet indignantly. “You're the one who almost killed us!” 

“There's too many damn filthy kids in this town,” the man said, looking at Yata as though he was nothing more than a piece of trash that had dared to fall out of a garbage can. “There's places for kids like you, you know, where you can actually be of some use to society.” 

Yata opened his mouth to reply and was stopped by a soft sound of a tongue click, the only warning he had before the skinny kid suddenly moved so fast and silent that Yata almost didn't realize what had happened. He saw a flash of thin wrists as the kid pushed his hands against the driver of the car for a moment and then in a single smooth motion turned and dashed away down the alley behind them. 

“What the—my wallet!” The driver swore and reached for Yata. “You little thieves--” 

Yata didn't wait to be caught, immediately turning and making his own escape. Behind him he could hear the man yelling for the police and in front of him he could just see the slim form of the kid in glasses, smoothly maneuvering his way through the maze of the back alleys, jumping easily over fallen trash cans and debris. Yata realized he was smiling and he couldn't seem to stop. 

He didn't know why, but somehow it was the most exhilarated he'd felt in _ages._

Finally the kid in the glasses slowed to a stop, breathing heavily. Yata slowed his own pace to a light trot as he carefully approached. The kid looked up at him and the glare still fixed on his face was enough to almost knock the smile from Yata's. 

“Hey.” Yata raised a hand in nervous greeting. The kid ignored him, straightening up as he began to dig through the wallet. “Um...you okay?” 

“Don't talk to me.” The kid's voice was flat and cold with a touch of arrogance and Yata's expression darkened a little. 

“Is that how you talk to the guy who saved your ass?” Yata asked, crossing his arms. The kid scoffed quietly and threw the empty wallet at him. 

“Who almost ruined everything, more like.” The kid stuck his hands in his pockets and turned as if to walk away. “Whatever. Don't talk to me again.” 

“H-hey, wait a second!” Yata took a few steps after him and was stopped by another cold look. Yata couldn't help but find himself a little transfixed by how blue those eyes were, clear like ice and just as frozen, but with a spark deep inside them that was like nothing Yata had seen from any of the other kids he'd run into since losing his family. The kid gave a small derisive laugh and then turned away again, walking off into the darkness without another word. 

_Too loud, too stupid. Go find someone else to bother._ Yata bit his lip and shook his head. 

_Forget that asshole._ Yata picked up the empty wallet, staring at it for a moment before throwing it back in the direction the kid had come from. Well, it wasn't like they were going to see each other again anyway. There was no point in Yata bothering to think about the weird kid any more than he had to. 

Still, he couldn't help but remember the color of the kid's eyes. 

– 

It had been nearly a week since he'd met the kid with the glasses and the air was hot and stale. Yata sat miserably against the side of a building, sweat dripping down his forehead. He'd had a run-in a couple hours earlier with one of the gangs that had kicked him out and had come away the worse for it, losing the abandoned loft that he'd been using as a room for the last month and a half. On top of that it seemed like summer had decided to come in with a vengeance and he felt like he was melting in the heat, the sun far too bright in the sky. 

From not too far away he heard the screeching of tires and the honking of a car horn, and Yata looked up. 

_It can't be._ He knew there was no reason to go look. Even if it was that person, they were strangers. There was no point in going to see what was happening. 

Even so Yata found his feet moving towards the sound. He could see a small crowd gathering from across the street and Yata jogged forward, suddenly curious. 

A car was stopped on the side of the street, halfway up on the curb. In the center of a group of concerned bystanders was the skinny kid with the glasses, looking a bit bruised and worse for wear. There was a large red mark on his cheek and several members of the crowd were fussing over it, touching his forehead as they checked him over for injuries. 

The crowd was so focused on the bruises that no one had bothered to look down and see that the kid's _hands_ were always moving – into pockets and purses, jewelry and wallets that appeared and disappeared under his clothes and no one seemed to notice anything at all. No one except Yata, who watched the kid's constantly moving hands with a sense of almost wonder. 

It was...it was really _cool,_ Yata couldn't help but think. Whoever that kid was it was kind of amazing, the way he planned all this, the way his hands kept moving and no one could see what he was doing at all. 

“Wait a minute, my watch...” One of the members of the crowd stood and as expected the glasses kid was off like a shot into the darkness, so fast that for a moment no one even seemed to have noticed that he'd moved. Yata immediately found his legs moving to follow, nearly barreling into a couple people as the crowd scattered around him like startled crows. 

He caught sight of the kid pretty easily-- he was fast but Yata knew that speed was one of his strong points. As soon as he got close he reached out, hand closing over one of the kid's thin pale arms. 

The kid immediately stopped and turned without so much as a moment's hesitation, a fist flashing out, and Yata couldn't quite duck under it in time. His grip was still strong on the kid's arm though and they both ended up falling to the ground together. 

“Do you do that all the time? Isn't it dangerous? Hey, what's your name?” Yata's cheek hurt but it was a good hurt and he couldn't stop smiling as he leaned forward. The glasses kid glared at him again, pulling his arm away roughly as he stood. 

“Why do you care?” His eyes were as cold as ever but Yata felt like he could _see_ it almost, the flame wavering behind them, and somehow Yata couldn't stop looking at him. 

“I just wanted to know. It's really smart, you know? I wouldn't have thought to do that.” 

“Obviously.” The implication was clear but Yata ignored it as he stood, holding out one hand. 

“I'm Yata Misaki.” Once upon a time Yata would've withheld the given name but he didn't anymore, had stopped feeling embarrassed long ago. It was the only thing he had left that his mother had given him, after all, and he'd take a million taunts about that name and more if he could only hear her call him by it one more time. 

“I don't care.” The kid was brushing dust off himself as if he couldn't stand having it on his clothes and Yata couldn't help but think it was a bit ridiculous, when he was sure that this kid didn't have a warm and clean place to stay any more than Yata himself did. 

“Come on, you could at least give me your name.” 

“Why? We aren't friends.” The kid clicked his tongue quietly as he turned to walk away. “I don't have any interest in you whatsoever. Leave me alone.” 

“H-hey, wait!” Yata reached for him again and the kid pulled his arm away, annoyed. “I just...wanted to talk to you, that's all.” He swallowed hard, sudden visions of a warm household warring with the memories of trying to fit in with every street gang he came across, taunts and mockery as each one told him how much he didn't fit in. 

_Too loud. Too stupid. What did you expect?_

It wasn't the same, though, not at all the same as the cold glare on the glasses kid's face. Yata had really thought that he did fit in with those people – had been proud of it, had been certain that these were his friends and vowed to protect them with all his strength – and it hadn't been until the very day they told him to leave that he'd even known there was anything wrong at all. 

The kid in front of him was rude, sure, and kind of an asshole but....at least he was _honest_ about it. 

_That's just stupid of me to care about, isn't it?_ Yata let his hand fall back and the glasses kid gave him a searching look for a moment before turning away again. _I really am such an idiot...this guy doesn't even want anything to do with me and I'm happy because at least he says it out loud._

“I'm kinda pathetic, huh?” Yata said quietly, falling back against the wall of the alley. 

“Looks like it.” The kid shrugged as he walked away, not even looking back at Yata. “Stop following after me.” 

“Yeah...sorry.” Yata ducked his head and tried to force his limbs to move from the wall, ignoring the way his back suddenly throbbed and his palm burned. 

“Well, well...there you are, huh, Fushimi?” A shadow fell across the alley and they both looked up. 

A group of teenagers stood in the mouth of the alley, dressed in ragged clothes and smirking. The leader was smoking a cigarette that he put out with his shoe as he stepped forward. 

“Ah...” Yata's eyes widened as he recognized them – he'd been part of their gang when he'd first come to the city, spent about half a week as their errand boy before being unceremoniously kicked out to fend for himself. 

“You hanging around with this guy now, Yata?” The leader – Yamata, Yata remembered his name – sneered at him and the rest of the gang behind him laughed. “Seriously, you don't know when to quit, huh? Well, if you're smart you'll step aside. Our business is with Fushimi.” 

The glasses kid – Fushimi, apparently – fixed the three of them with the same frigid stare he'd given Yata, not looking nervous or fearful in the least despite being outnumbered. 

“We've already warned you once, right, Fushimi?” Yamata reached out and grabbed a handful of Fushimi's collar, roughly pulling him closer. 

“H-hey!” Yata took a step forward almost automatically and Yamata shot him a glare. 

“Stay out of this, shrimp, if you know what's good for you.” Yamata turned his focus back on Fushimi, who still had that same flat look on his face despite everything. “We told you last time you pulled your little trick, if you're going to do that shit in our territory you better be willing to pay us for it.” 

“That's not fair!” Yata yelled before he could stop himself. “Fushimi did that by himself, right? He doesn't owe you assholes anything!” 

“I told you to stay out of this.” Yamata turned to glare at Yata, half-dragging Fushimi with him as he did, and Yata's hands clenched into fists. “You should know better than anyone how the world works, Yata. The gangs own these streets. You pathetic little orphans _owe_ us for keeping the police off your backs. Unless you'd rather we let you be packed up and sent back to one of the stinking orphanages?” He laughed. “Like the workhouses would have any use for a shrimpy kid like you--” 

He cut off with a sudden howl of pain and Yata found himself staring blankly as Yamata dropped Fushimi heavily to the ground. Yamata's hand was bleeding, and there was a small knife visible in Fushimi's hand. 

“You're gonna pay for that you little--” Yamata reached for Fushimi and without a moment's hesitation Yata lowered his head and charged. 

There was a flurry of fists and blood and steel after that, so fast that Yata could barely keep track of what he was doing and who he was fighting, only just able to keep one eye on the thin quick form of Fushimi darting in and out of the fight with a knife in his hand. Yata was bruised and bleeding by the time he spotted an opening, and he didn't even hesitate this time as he grabbed Fushimi's arm and dragged him forward, the two of them running side by side out of the alley with the sounds of yelling and cursing chasing after them. 

Eventually they found themselves out of the back alleys and into the main streets, passersby staring at them with thinly disguised disapproval as they leaned against a building breathing hard, heartbeats pounding. 

Fushimi was the first to move, pushing himself off the wall and then resting for a moment with his hands on his knees, shaking slightly and clearly still winded even as he tried to walk away. 

“Hey!” Yata called after him and this time Fushimi turned. Yata smiled and held out a fist. “We showed those guys, huh?” 

Fushimi stared at his fist blankly for a long moment, as if not certain what his response should be. Finally he turned away with another quiet click of his tongue. Yata let his arm fall back to his side, deflated. 

“Fushimi Saruhiko.” The words were hushed and Yata looked up abruptly. “...My name. Fushimi Saruhiko.” 

His voice was still as cold as ever and he didn't bother to turn around. Even so, Yata couldn't help but smile. 

“Fushimi...Saruhiko, huh?” 

_IV. a deep red rash (and Misaki)_

It was hot. 

Fushimi could feel his skin burning as he struggled for a breath. The air was thin and smelled like sickness, and it made his head spin. 

It was no surprise, really, that illness spread so easily in a town full of war orphans and poor families packed together like sardines in small apartments, where the streets were piled with garbage and there was always that constant smell of smoke in the air. It was only to be expected that an epidemic would hit eventually. 

Fushimi rolled over onto his side, curling up under the single ragged blanket even though he was still sweating. He was lying on a bed in an old schoolhouse that had been turned into a makeshift hospital, the windows boarded over and painted with red signs. There were a handful of nurses who had volunteered to tend to the sick and Fushimi could hear them sometimes, talking amongst themselves in hushed tones and calling it a quarantine. A necessary action in order to keep the epidemic from decimating the whole town. 

Fushimi knew better, of course. He hadn't managed to live this long on his own by being stupid and he'd tried his best to stay away from the main streets once he'd realized he was getting sick. He'd been caught in the end trying to steal a sack of ice from the butcher shop, snatched by a police officer wearing gloves over his hands and then turned over to the doctors. They'd told him to relax, that they were going to take care of him. 

Lies, all of it, and Fushimi had known it from the moment they dragged him in. They were being packed in here to die, all of them poor and useless and powerless. The rich could afford to travel to the nearest city and take the train there to a real hospital. The rest of them were only collateral damage and Fushimi had no illusions about his chances of walking out of this place alive. 

_“Does it hurt, little monkey?”_ Niki's face was dancing in front of his eyes and Fushimi shuddered, tried to wave it away. He felt someone holding down his limbs, keeping him still as he thrashed about wildly. Niki stayed where he was, laughing. 

It _hurt_ , and Fushimi gasped for breath again. Someone poured water down his throat, cold, and he felt a hand on his forehead. Fushimi pulled his head away, eyes still closed. 

Hot. It was too hot. 

_“Poor little monkey.”_ Niki was still there at the foot of the bed, watching him with half-lidded eyes. _“Going to die all alone and everyone will forget you ever existed. We forgot you existed too.”_ He smirked. _“Or maybe we just wanted to leave you to_ burn.” 

_Shut up._ Fushimi wanted to yell but his throat was too dry to speak. He didn't need a hallucination to tell him things he already knew. He didn't need a hallucination to tell him that he was going to die alone and weak and forgotten, as though his existence had never mattered in the first place. 

He wondered if that idiot would remember him, at least. 

It wasn't like Fushimi cared much, about Yata Misaki. The idiot had been following him around for nearly a month now, acting as if they were friends. Which was ridiculous because Fushimi didn't have friends, had never had friends. He'd lived this long on his own and he didn't intend to change that now. 

But it wasn't so bad either, fighting back to back with Yata against some of the other street gangs. Yata was a loudmouthed moron but he was good with a punch and he always followed any orders Fushimi gave him. Fushimi wondered if Yata had even noticed that he'd disappeared or if he'd just assumed that Fushimi had moved on or died. 

_Died._ Fushimi gave a choking laugh and he heard someone moan off to his right. Well, he would be dead soon, so it would be a good enough assumption. It wasn't like it mattered anyway. They wouldn't see each other again, either way. 

_“Are you going to cry?”_ Niki laughed at him again. There was blood dripping from Niki's forehead and his skin was black with burns, fire licking at his back and shoulders. Fushimi kicked off the blanket and pressed his head against the pillow, damp with sweat (not tears, never tears, because he didn't cry anymore, hadn't cried in years). 

Someone put the blanket back over his shoulders and smoothed his hair, pushing it away from his eyes. 

He couldn't remember what day it was. Maybe that was why he was still burning, because he'd never made it out of that cellar in the first place. Maybe he was still in the dark, unable to find the way out, and everything else he'd made up, a final dream before dying. 

_“You're crying again,”_ Niki said idly, leaning on the edge of the bed. He was there all the time now, watching and smiling. Fushimi wondered if he should've changed his name, if that would have helped at all. _“Poor pathetic little monkey. If you'd come out of the front door with the rest of us you'd be better off.”_ He smiled, teeth like bullets, and a whimper escaped Fushimi's lips. 

More water, soothing on his parched throat. A hand placed a wet cloth on his forehead again, gentle, and Fushimi wondered if he was making up phantoms again, because when the nurses bothered with him their hands were always cold and clinical, treating him like just another notch in the funeral ledger, another body to eventually be buried. 

It pissed him off, that thought, and Fushimi pulled away from the gentle hand, the cloth falling from his forehead. He didn't need kindness, didn't need care. He was going to die here uselessly, not having accomplished anything at all, and so he didn't need anyone's pity. 

“Come on, Fushimi, hold still.” There was a voice in his ears, hands trying to roll him onto his back and placing the cloth back over his eyes. Dimly Fushimi thought he recognized it. 

“You have to get better, you know. I—I'm not gonna go anywhere until you feel better, okay?” 

Fushimi laughed quietly as his eyes closed. He really must have been hallucinating again, because that voice had sounded almost like Yata. 

_There was a dark tunnel ahead of him, and silence. Fushimi felt hot but that might only have been because of the smell of smoke in the air and the flames licking at his feet. The walls of the tunnel were close and the ceiling was low and Fushimi crawled forward on his hands and knees._

_It was dark, and there were no stars._

_There was a monster behind him though, a hulking beast like a lion and when it opened its mouth and roared more flames chased after him, scorched his heels, burned the bottoms of his feet. He couldn't breathe but he crawled forward anyway, desperate, grasping._

_Niki's laughter was behind him then, riding the back of the monster. Kisa's eyes were gazing coldly at him from the dark and the way in front of him was littered with dried white bones. He kept moving, climbed over them, small shards of bone scraping at his skin. The monster was still there. It was still following him._

_The cellar was completely dark – no light, no light, not a single star, and even the fire behind him didn't reflect at all – and he couldn't see now, couldn't move forward. Fushimi scrambled at the wall until his hands bled and still there was no way out, no way out. He was about to be devoured, and there was no way out._

_And then--_

_“Don't die, Fushimi!”_

_A voice he knew, even though he couldn't place it. But the wall crumbled in front of him and then the floor dropped away and he was falling into open sky, falling, falling--_

Fushimi sat up with a gasp, his body drenched in sweat. His heart was pounding and he swayed dizzily for a moment, trying to figure out where he was. 

The old schoolhouse. Beds on the floor, people coughing and sick, some with sheets thrown over their heads. Red markings on the boarded up walls and bad air all around. 

And curled up next to his bed with a mask strapped loosely over his mouth and gloves on his hands, Yata Misaki, fast asleep but still holding tightly to one of Fushimi's clammy hands. He stirred at Fushimi's movement, rubbing his eyes and tugging the mask down as he looked around for a moment. 

He spotted Fushimi, then, and his face lit up so abruptly that Fushimi felt like he was outside that burning house again, looking up at a million stars. 

“Fushimi!” Yata was immediately there next to him, helping him stay upright as one hand pressed against his forehead. “How do you feel? Hey, do you need some water, I can call a nurse...” 

“What are you doing here?” The words felt thick in his mouth but the pain that had been constant in his chest seemed to be fading. 

“What the hell do you _think_ I'm doing here, you idiot?” Yata's face was wet and Fushimi could feel his heart suddenly beating harder, skin tingling slightly in a way that was just like the fever and yet somehow entirely different. “You never showed up at our usual spot and then I heard they brought you here and I—I was really worried, you know!” 

“You're not sick,” Fushimi said blankly. His brain was still moving sluggishly, trying to catch up, and somehow he thought that even if his mind _had_ been working right he still wouldn't be able to understand this. 

“Ah, well...I kinda volunteered?” Yata laughed sheepishly. “It was the only way they'd let me see you, so...” 

“You idiot.” His voice was a hoarse croak and Yata leaned forward in sudden concern, trying to make him lie back down. “This isn't some common cold. You could _die_ in here!” 

“Yeah, that's what the nurses said,” Yata said quietly, looking a bit sad for some reason that Fushimi couldn't grasp. “But I don't get sick very often. It's been _ages_ since I last had a cold or anything! And anyway...” He shifted nervously. “Well...I couldn't let you be here alone, right?” 

Fushimi felt his breath catch, hands shaking as they clasped the sweat-soaked sheets beneath him. 

“I'll go get you some more water, all right? So...rest a little.” Yata smiled at him again, warm, sincere, and Fushimi could only stare at him as he ran off through the cluster of sickbeds and patients. 

It didn't make any sense, not at all. Fushimi wondered if maybe he was still in the clutches of fever, if that was why it felt so hot in his chest. It was like Yata's words had made a scar on him somewhere, deep and unseen and almost painful. 

It was like he was in that dark tunnel still, crawling forward towards the bright light of Yata's smile, and somehow Fushimi couldn't bring himself to stop reaching for it.


	2. we'd be forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had trouble deciding where to chapter this one out and decided on a shorter chapter this time but a longer one for the next update ^^

_V. bruised knee, beating heart_

“Saruhiko!” Yata didn't even have to look as he ducked under the oncoming fist, legs sweeping out to knock his opponent off balance. He felt Saruhiko there beside him almost immediately, hitting their attacker hard in the back of the head with the butt of a pistol. 

The man who'd attacked them fell heavily to the ground, Yata's foot planted in the small of his back and Saruhiko's pistol pointed at his forehead. 

“That was pretty easy, huh, Saruhiko?” Yata dug his heel into the man's lower back, grinning widely. Saruhiko didn't even look at him, only clicked his tongue quietly as he pressed the pistol closer against the man's head. 

“What was that you were saying about 'your territory'?” Saruhiko's entire attention was focused on their enemy, his voice bored and slightly scornful in the tone only Saruhiko could manage. He adjusted his stance slightly, posture loose and easy and the gun almost lax against the man's forehead. There was something insulting about it and Yata smirked. Only Saruhiko could do that too, could convey his distaste for someone so easily without having to say a single word. 

“I—I didn't say nothing,” the man stuttered into the dirt and Saruhiko clicked his tongue quietly, displeased. The man's mouth snapped shut and Yata dug his heel in a little deeper, enjoying the way the man whimpered slightly. 

“Are you that big of an idiot, huh?” Saruhiko murmured. “Misaki, you heard something, didn't you?” 

“Yup.” Yata crossed his arms. “Heh, and here I thought this guy might be a challenge. I guess we should just get rid of him, huh, Saruhiko?” 

The man made a small frightened squeak as Saruhiko cocked the gun for just a moment before holstering it. 

“I don't want to waste bullets on scum,” Saruhiko said coldly. “I guess we'll have to let this one go.” He leaned in, his smile cold and feral and Yata felt a thrill run up his spine. “But you'll tell your friends, won't you? We're not some weak kids here for you to play with.” 

The man nodded, face white, and Yata reluctantly moved so that he could stand. Immediately the man got up and stumbled out of the alley, practically tripping over his own feet in his haste to get away. Yata waited until he was out of sight before finally giving in to the laughter that had been threatening to break its way out of his mouth. 

“Not gonna waste a bullet, huh, Saruhiko?” Yata poked his shoulder and Saruhiko rolled his eyes. He was smiling though, not in the cold way he had been before but a _genuine_ smile. 

He'd been making a lot more of those, ever since he and Yata had moved in together, and somehow it never failed to make Yata's breath catch a little in his throat. Saruhiko didn't smile often but when he did Yata always wanted to carve it into his memory where he wouldn't ever forget the sight. 

“It was the truth.” Saruhiko shrugged. “If we had any bullets, I wouldn't have wasted them on a weakling like him.” 

Yata laughed and held out a fist towards Saruhiko. Saruhiko immediately held out his own, fists pressing together, and Yata could see the triumph in his own smile mirrored in Saruhiko's. 

The other street gangs called them 'Yata and Fushimi' now, like a matched set, and had for the slightly more than a year that they'd been together. The two of them had been underestimated at first – the other gangs were larger after all, mostly made up of kids who were older and stronger, but that didn't mean anything to Yata when he had Saruhiko at his side. Saruhiko was amazing, after all, and together they'd held their own in every fight they'd been dragged into. Now only a few new arrivals ever bothered them, people who looked at them and saw only two scrawny kids and assumed that they would be weaklings, easy pickings. 

The pistol had definitely helped, as much as Yata preferred to win battles with his own fists. Saruhiko had scavenged it from a garbage bin, damaged, and spent days fixing it all on his own. They didn't often have bullets – ammunition was expensive and just getting enough to eat was a struggle, especially with Saruhiko's shitty diet being what it was – but just having it made Yata feel powerful. Saruhiko held onto it of course, being the better shot, but Yata had found a wooden plank light enough to swing around and that worked well enough when his fists weren't enough. 

“Misaki.” Saruhiko's voice cut through his thoughts and Yata looked up. “Let's go back, I'm tired.” 

“Right, right! It's getting kinda late, huh?” Yata laughed and threw an arm around Saruhiko's shoulders. Saruhiko paused for just a moment and Yata could almost feel the flinch that had been held in. He couldn't help the frown that darkened his face for a moment but he quickly covered it up with a smile. Saruhiko was like that sometimes, shying like a frightening horse at things that to Yata were second nature, an arm around the shoulder, a hand reaching out, but Yata knew better than to ask him for reasons why. “Race you there, all right?” 

“Tch. Don't be an idiot.” 

“Yeah, well, I'm an idiot who's faster than you,” Yata said with a smirk. “I'm going ahead!” 

“Misaki--” He didn't even hear Saruhiko's reply, legs already moving and the wind whistling past his ears as he ran. He knew Saruhiko would follow anyway without needing to look back. 

They were always together, after all, and anywhere Yata went Saruhiko would always be by his side. Yata's fingers burned with the certainty of it sometimes – no matter what happened, no matter if Saruhiko hesitated or flinched away, Yata had already sworn to himself that he wasn't ever going to let go of Saruhiko's hand. 

Yata took a sharp right and clambered over a metal fence. It wasn't the easiest route back to their hideout but it was a shortcut and he was, after all, faster than Saruhiko. 

\-- 

“Took you long enough, Misaki.” 

So of course Saruhiko was there already, looking bored and not at all out of breath even though Yata was panting as though he'd run a marathon. 

“No way! How do you always beat me, Saruhiko?” Yata punched his shoulder lightly and Saruhiko smirked proudly. 

“That's a secret, _Misaki.”_ The way Saruhiko stretched his name out sometimes was annoying but Yata couldn't bring himself to tell Saruhiko to stop. Hearing that name from someone had become a comfort, almost. 

It was like having a family again after all, being with Saruhiko. He hadn't said as much out loud – Saruhiko got weird and quiet whenever Yata mentioned his family and had never said so much as a word about his own, and even someone like Yata could tell that continuing that line of questioning would get him nowhere. But still, being together...it felt like _home,_ for the first time since his own had been burned to the ground. 

“Are you coming?” Saruhiko was already pushing the makeshift wire frame they used as a ladder against the wall of the warehouse. 

“Yeah, yeah, wait for me. I'll hold the ladder and you go up first, all right?” Yata took hold of the bottom of the wire frame and Saruhiko gave him a flat look for a moment before carefully heaving himself up and through the broken wooden slat in the nearest window. Yata waited until he was safely inside before easily clambering up himself, making sure the frame was still propped against the wall as he climbed through the window. 

Their home base had once been a warehouse that had been burned out and abandoned even before the war. It wasn't in the best of shape – the walls were covered in dirt and mold and there was a big hole in the roof that guaranteed the building would be cold in winter and hot in summer and wet in every rain, but Saruhiko seemed to like being able to see the sky. They'd made beds out of a pair of old metal pallets intended for transporting wood panels and they'd even managed to scavenge two old mattresses and a couple fraying blankets to put on top. They had candles and a few rusty lanterns for light if they needed it when the sun went down, and Saruhiko had found a couple wooden boxes and set them up as a kind of table. 

They had pushed a few more boxes up against the inner wall in order to climb down onto, since the other windows and doors had been boarded up. From his spot on the windowsill Yata could get a full view of the floor below and he smiled a little as he looked down. 

The floor of the warehouse was covered in stars. 

Saruhiko had done it, from even before he and Yata had started living together. When Yata had asked about it he'd only shrugged and said that it was something to pass the time. The markings were really cool though, perfect maps of the stars that Saruhiko could see through the hole in the roof, and sometimes the two of them would stay up late into the night with Saruhiko drawing stars on the floor and telling Yata their names. 

The walls were covered in marks too, some older and half-washed away, all the plans the two of them made written there in chalk. Saruhiko always made the best plans after all – not just wild tales like Yata was always spinning, stories of heroes and victories, but plans that were _smart,_ diagrammed down to the smallest detail there on the wall. Saruhiko had it all written down, what trains they would take and what places they would stop in, how they were going to get out of this shitty town and go away and do something great. 

That was one of the things Yata liked best about Saruhiko. Whenever he'd talked with anyone else about the things he wanted to do, about leaving town and joining the army and helping to win the war, the response had always been derisive laughter and snorts, comments about how no way a shrimp like him could ever do anything. 

Saruhiko never laughed, though. Saruhiko would always listen with a thoughtful look on his face and then when he finally spoke it would be with a plan even grander than Yata's and Yata could _feel_ it, the consideration behind those words. Saruhiko didn't think it was impossible. Saruhiko thought they could really do it and sometimes Yata found himself thinking that as long as Saruhiko believed they could do something then there was no way the two of them could ever fail. 

“We really taught that guy a lesson today, didn't we?” Yata threw himself down on his mattress. Saruhiko was already flopped on his back on his own bed, playing idly with the revolver in his hands. “I hate assholes like that, thinking they can do whatever they want just because we're kids.” 

“Don't waste time thinking about idiots like that.” Saruhiko shrugged. “He won't bother us again.” 

“I know...” Yata sat up abruptly. “Hey, Saruhiko.” 

“What?” Saruhiko barely turned his head towards where Yata sat but Yata knew he was listening anyway. 

“Do you ever think that...that maybe we should be doing more?” It had been bugging him for a while, truth to tell. Being with Saruhiko and taking down anyone who went after them was great, of course – Yata wouldn't trade being with Saruhiko for anything, he knew that, but still. 

“What are you talking about?” There was a hint of annoyance in Saruhiko's voice but he was always like that after a fight, a little on edge and tired. 

“Well...we're kinda like our own street gang now, aren't we?” Yata stared down absently at his hands. “But there's always new guys comin' into town and getting dragged into all kinds of bad places and I thought maybe we should do something like that too. Wouldn't it be cool to have our own gang?” 

There was a long pause and then Saruhiko clicked his tongue. 

“Don't be an idiot, Misaki. What use do we have for a gang?” His voice was cold and bitter on the last word and Yata stared back at him curiously. “We're stronger like this. Bringing in anyone else is a waste of time.” 

“I guess...” There was an itch in his mind though, and Yata didn't really know how to explain it. Saruhiko had already turned away and Yata leaned back on his bed instead, sighing quietly. 

“Misaki.” Saruhiko's soft voice made him turn his head. Saruhiko was staring at him with intent eyes but there was something in them that Yata couldn't quite grasp. 

“Yeah?” 

“We're going to get out of here together.” Saruhiko's voice was hushed but completely confident, completely certain, and Yata's face broke out in a smile. 

“Right. Together.” 

– 

_The field was burning._

_Yata ran as fast as he could, Megumi's hand clenched tightly in his own. There was a dark shadow on the horizon and the field was a mass of flames all around them, stinging his back, burning in his lungs._

_He heard Megumi scream and Yata's own cry was swallowed by the roar of the flames as her hand was torn away from his. He turned and tried to reach for her, tried to hold onto her, but she disappeared in an instant, swallowed up by smoke and fire._

_Then Saruhiko was there next to him instead, holding onto his hand as Yata curled his fingers into Saruhiko's palm, fingernails digging into Saruhiko's pale skin. Saruhiko never said a word, only looked at him with dark eyes and Yata could see something like a fire glowing in the center of each pupil._

_He ran again and pulled Saruhiko beside him, never stopping even when Saruhiko stumbled and Yata had to drag him every step forward. He couldn't let this happen, couldn't lose Saruhiko too. Even if Yata himself got swallowed up it didn't matter, if only he could keep Saruhiko safe._

_His left eye stung suddenly and Saruhiko pulled his hand away._

_“Misaki.”_

_Saruhiko stared at him, and his eyes burned._

_“Misaki.”_

“Misaki.” 

“Huh?” Yata blinked groggily as he tried to remember where he was. Saruhiko was next to him, one hand on his shoulder, whispering his name in low but desperate tones and it seemed darker than usual in the warehouse. “Saruhiko, what...?” 

There was a smell like smoke and gunpowder on the wind and Yata sat up abruptly. 

“Wait here.” Saruhiko held one of their old lamps in one hand and the stars on the floor seemed to glow as he passed by them, making his way to the window. He clambered up easily onto the boxes and peered out through the broken slat. 

“Saruhiko? What's going on?” Yata stared back at him blankly, still not sure what was going on. 

“Nothing. Just stay there.” Saruhiko leaned out the window slightly and Yata felt his heart start to pound a little and he didn't even know why. 

There was a roar coming from somewhere above. Yata looked up towards the hole in the roof. 

Smoke, obscuring even the moon above, and planes flying through the sky. 

“What?” Yata could feel himself starting to shake and his hands clenched around his blanket. “Saruhiko.” 

“We should be safe if we stay here.” Saruhiko moved away from the window, his voice clipped and serious as though he was trying to work his way through a difficult problem. “The soldiers went right by this warehouse so they probably don't think it's occupied. They won't waste bombs on this section of town, not when there's nothing here but shuttered factories and tenement buildings. They'll focus on the center of town instead, flush out the rich residents and catch them when they try to escape their flaming homes.” 

There was something flat and matter-of-fact in Saruhiko's voice that made Yata's fists clench even tighter. 

“We just need to sit tight here for now.” Saruhiko set the lamp down as he settled himself back in his own bed. “We should stay awake until it's over though, just in case we need to evacuate.” 

“Saruhiko.” Yata's voice came out as only a croak and he swallowed hard. “What—what's going on? I saw...I mean, in the sky, there's...” 

“Isn't it obvious?” Saruhiko's voice was flat and tuneless, the same voice of the boy Yata had first encountered in the alley and it hurt Yata's ears. “We're being occupied, Misaki. Both the Colorless and the Green armies, from the looks of it. By tomorrow this town will belong to the enemy.” 

_Colorless and Green armies._ Yata bit his lip, images flashing through his mind – the sound of marching feet and the roar of plane engines, his mother's face as she pressed Megumi's hand into his, the panic in the streets and the sound of gunfire – and he clambered to his feet. 

“Misaki?” Saruhiko's voice seemed distant to his ears and Yata wasn't even aware that he was moving until he was halfway to the window. “Misaki, you idiot, what are you doing?” 

“I'm going to kill those bastards.” It didn't sound like his own voice and Yata's hand burned. “I'm going to fucking kill every last one of them!” 

The wire frame ladder had been knocked down, whether on accident or wrenched out of place by the force of an impact he didn't know but Yata didn't intend to let that stop him. He heard Saruhiko call his name again but his legs wouldn't stop moving, jumping to the ground and rolling slightly as he hit, breath knocked out of his lungs by the impact but even so he climbed to his feet as fast as he could and ran towards the center of town. 

From somewhere in the distance he could hear screaming and there was a bright flash of orange on the horizon. Their warehouse was in the old section of town, tucked neatly behind the tenement buildings and newer factories and a maze of alleyways. He could smell the smoke on the wind though and as he ran through the streets he could hear the sounds of screaming coming closer. 

Then he could see it and Yata found himself stopping dead. There was a building on fire in front of him and as he watched the door flew open and a figure ran out. They got only a few feet before there was the sound of gunfire and the person crumpled to the ground. Three other men stepped forward weapons still drawn. One wore the mask of the Green army. The other two had strange blank patches on their shoulders. Colorless. 

Yata's hand stung again and he ran forward towards them. 

“You idiot!” Someone yanked him back and Yata's fists flashed out instinctively. The person holding him grabbed his wrist and suddenly the two of them collapsed to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Yata thrashed wildly, trying to get to his feet, to do something, to help, to save _someone, anyone--_

“Misaki!” The familiar voice snapped him out of it and Yata raised his head. 

“Saruhiko?” Saruhiko's pale face seemed to stand out against the dark shadows like a beacon. His hair was a mess and he was breathing hard but his eyes were steady as he stared back at Yata. “What are you doing here?” 

“What do you think?” Saruhiko's voice was acid and he didn't even wait for Yata's reply before grabbing his arm and dragging him backwards with a strength Yata hadn't even realized he had. He allowed himself to be pulled for a few moments before his mind managed to catch up with his body and he yanked his hand away roughly, stumbling slightly and banging his knee hard against the corner of the alley. 

Behind him he could still hear the sounds of yelling and gunfire and in his head there was a burning field and Megumi's hand in his, and pain that lanced up his palm. 

“Come _on,_ Misaki.” Saruhiko reached for him again and Yata pulled away, ignoring the sharp spike of annoyance that crossed Saruhiko's face at movement. “We're going to get caught at this rate.” 

“I'm not running.” Fuck if he was going to run, not this time. These were the people who killed his mother, killed Minoru, killed Megumi. If he ran now he'd never forgive himself, and Yata's fists clenched. “We can't just run from this, Saruhiko! The town's going to be--” 

“Do you want to get killed, you idiot?” Saruhiko hissed, angrier than Yata had ever seen him. “Come on. We can still make it back to the warehouse.” 

“We can't just let them take over!” He couldn't save anyone before so there was no way he could run now, not this time. “We can take these guys down. Do you just want to go hide like a coward, Saruhiko?” 

“Better a coward than a moron.” Saruhiko grabbed his hand again. “Try and use that tiny brain of yours for once, Misaki. There are hundreds of soldiers out there. Do you really think you can beat all of them with your fists?” 

“We can if you help me!” There was absolute conviction in Yata's voice. He'd always believed that, after all – if it was the two of them, there was nothing they couldn't do. Even if it seemed impossible, if Saruhiko was with him there had to be something else he could do besides just running and saving himself, only himself. “You're—you know everything, right, Saruhiko? Together we can--” 

He was cut off by the sound of gunfire from right ahead of them and suddenly Saruhiko was running again, pulling Yata behind. A light shone on them from somewhere and he heard someone yell and then they were running blindly through the back alleys together, Saruhiko always in front and moving with single-minded purpose even though Yata had long lost track of where they were. 

There was a yell from somewhere nearby and the next thing Yata knew he was pressed tight against a wall, Saruhiko leaning over him and pushing up so close that he was nearly lying on top of Yata. There was the cold metal of a dumpster at Yata's back and he could just make out a small dot of light along the furthest point of the wall, as though from a searchlight. There were shadows dancing along it, dark figures with weapons in hand, soldiers looking for anyone they might have overlooked. Saruhiko had pulled them into a small cramped corner of the alley, a dumpster on one side of them and a brick wall on the other and it suddenly occurred to Yata that if the soldiers turned their way he wasn't entirely certain that the darkness would be enough to hide them. 

“Saruhiko--” Yata started to speak and Saruhiko pressed a hand over his mouth, still crouched so close that Yata could almost rest his head against Saruhiko's chest. 

And that was when Yata realized how _fast_ Saruhiko's heart was beating. 

He glanced up, trying to make out Saruhiko's face in the shadows. Saruhiko's eyes were half-closed and his hand was shaking as it fell away from Yata's mouth, lightly, barely noticeable if the two of them hadn't been pressed so close together and if the rest of his body hadn't been so unnaturally still. 

They were close, so close, and Yata could feel Saruhiko's breath on his face. Yata's own breathing seemed to go still and quiet, his entire body unable to move even as his head angled up just slightly, his mouth inches from Saruhiko's and it was like he could see a line between them that he suddenly found himself wishing he could cross. Saruhiko's breathing was rapid and shallow and Yata wanted to angle his head up further, take Saruhiko's face in his hands, calm him down, but he couldn't seem to move. 

Yata wasn't certain how long they remained like that, crouched together in the dark while the shadows moved nearby, the smell of smoke still heavy in the air. Finally there was the sound of feet moving away and the light blinked out, and Saruhiko stood. 

“We'll defeat them.” Saruhiko's voice made Yata look up. He was staring back at Yata steadily, voice low and serious. “The two of us. We can't do it right now, not when they've got the upper hand like this. We have to wait for the right moment and then we'll take them down and show the whole world what we can do.” 

“Saruhiko...” Yata's eyes were wide and he could feel his heart stirring at those words – words that he could only believe because they came from Saruhiko, who knew everything and made all the best plans, who was shaking still but staring at Yata with eyes almost tentative as he waited for a reply. Yata straightened up and this time he reached for Saruhiko's hand, holding it fast in his own despite the way Saruhiko tensed at his touch. 

“Right.” It wasn't like running, not really. They were walking forward together, side by side, and Yata's hand tightened over Saruhiko's as if part of him was afraid that any move he made could tear them away from each other. “Together we can take on any stupid army. They just better watch out for us!” 

The warehouse was still standing when they got back, ignored as Saruhiko had said it would be. The wire frame ladder was lying on its side in the dirt and suddenly Yata was hyper aware of his own bruises and of the dark marks he could see already forming on Saruhiko's pale skin. Saruhiko didn't say anything, though, only put the ladder back upright and climbed inside without another word. 

“I'll stay awake. In case...anything happens.” There was a hush in Saruhiko's voice that made Yata shiver somehow and he reached for Saruhiko's hand again as he sat down next to him. 

“I'll stay awake too then.” 

“Don't be stupid. One of us should get some sleep, at least.” 

Yata didn't reply, only pulled Saruhiko a little closer. His entire body felt exhausted but he didn't think he would be able to sleep, not now. If he closed his eyes he knew that his dreams would only be filled with images of a field on fire and of Saruhiko being swallowed by the flames. 

They both stayed awake all night instead, watching planes move through a sky choked with curling black smoke that obscured all of the stars except the ones scratched on the floor, and Yata wouldn't let go of Saruhiko's hand.


	3. we would find hindsight at the edge of the world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, longer chapter this time and other cast members finally make their appearance.

_VI. powder burn_

Fushimi sat crouched on the floor, marking out words in chalk and trying to ignore the idiot having a fit behind him. 

Misaki slammed a fist into the wall, swearing, and Fushimi didn't even bother to look up. 

“Don't break your hand, idiot.” His concentration was focused fully on the words he was writing on the floor so that he could forget for a moment the rumbling emptiness of his stomach and the sight he and Misaki had seen earlier that morning when they'd made one of their rare trips outside to scavenge for food. 

The town had been under occupation for two weeks now, having fallen easily in the course of a single night. The two of them had been lucky – the warehouse hadn't been so much as scratched in the initial attack and the ground troops had passed them by entirely. By the next morning though there had been troops stationed all around the town gates, ready to ID anyone who attempted to go in or out. The official word was that the occupants still alive were to go about business as usual, but there was a curfew now and being caught after dark was as good as a death warrant. 

Beyond that the Green Army had mostly moved on, leaving behind largely the Colorless troops to keep watch on the town. Fushimi curled his lip in disgust. The Greens were fairly strictly regimented, having once belonged to the United Colors after all, but the Colorless Army was nothing but a bunch of thugs. They held the town in an iron fist and anyone who dared to challenge their authority was dealt with swiftly and mercilessly. 

They'd seen that already, earlier that morning. Even so much as getting food was difficult now, with the possibility of being caught stealing by the wrong people, but they had little in the way of emergency provisions and there had been no choice but to leave the safety of the warehouse. This had led to the two of them being in the perfect spot to watch as soldiers dragged a man through the town streets and executed him in full view of the townspeople. 

They'd both recognized the man who'd been killed – Yamata, the leader of one of the street gangs who they'd fought with before. He'd apparently been caught stealing from a store that had been 'commandeered' by the Colorless Guard. For that transgression he'd been tied up, beaten, dragged into the town square and shot in the head publicly as an 'example.' 

For his part Fushimi hadn't really felt anything, watching Yamata die. It wasn't like that scum meant anything to him and anyone moronic enough to be caught probably deserved his fate. But Misaki hadn't seen it that way – Misaki had been stupid enough to try and intervene and it had taken all Fushimi's strength to keep him from storming out right into the middle of the street and getting himself killed along with Yamata. 

Misaki had been crying too, afterward. Fushimi couldn't understand that at all, didn't see the point in shedding tears over an idiot dying an idiot's death. But Misaki had cried, had cried and had spent the last few minutes swearing and punching the walls as if that could be of any use whatsoever. 

“Are you done yet, Misaki?” Fushimi raised his head slightly and Misaki glared back, wiping one hand furiously over his eyes. Fushimi could see that there was a streak of blood across Misaki's knuckles. 

“Aren't you upset at all, Saruhiko?” Misaki demanded. “You saw what those guys did! We can't just—we can't just _hide_ in here like cowards!” 

“Tch. Calm down and think for a minute, Misaki. What would you have done if I'd let you go out there?” 

“I would've–“ 

“You would've gotten _killed,”_ Fushimi said darkly. “Think. We don't have any weapons except a single pistol without any bullets in it and they're an entire regiment of soldiers. We can't beat them just with fists.” 

“So you just want to give up?” Misaki asked angrily. 

“I didn't say that.” Fushimi stared back down at the floor. It was covered in black marks now, most of the star patterns wiped away to make room for more important things. “I heard some interesting rumors, the other day.” 

With the town under occupation, most of their usual ways of getting money and food had all but dried up. That being the case, Fushimi had offered to do some odd job work for the occupying soldiers. Most of them were as stupid as he'd expected, looking down at him and seeing only a skinny and starving war orphan, assuming that he'd do anything for food and wouldn't dare make any attempt to step out of line. The soldiers had been all too happy to allow him to do some of the grunt work for them and Fushimi had found it easy to move between them, listening to everything they said and giving up nothing in return. 

“They think the Green General may be planning on visiting this town.” Fushimi's eyes narrowed. “If that's the case, any move we make needs to be done before he gets here. Our best chance is to scatter the troops now, when they don't have a strong commanding presence to bind them. There are a few high-ranking officers here but they won't be enough to keep everyone in line if a big enough disaster happens.” 

“So what do we do?” Misaki's full attention was on him now and Fushimi felt the edges of a smile tugging at his lips. He couldn't help but feel stronger when Misaki looked at him that way, like there was no chance of failure at all. 

“Then there's the other rumor.” Fushimi continued as if Misaki hadn't spoken. “They turned away a merchant at the gates this morning. That man said he'd seen soldiers in the colors of the Red Division at the train platform in the city.” 

“The Red Division?” Misaki's eyes were bright and sharp suddenly. They'd both heard the stories of the Red Division, after all: the elite melee combat unit of the United Colors, who had fought battles outnumbered and outgunned and still achieved victory. 

“Word has to have reached the main army base by now, that the town's been taken,” Fushimi said. “The ammunitions factory was an important supplier for the United Colors and it's been taken by the enemy. They can't let that stand.” 

“What's that got to do with us, though?” Misaki asked. “Are we just gonna wait until they come and save us?” 

“Of course not, idiot.” Fushimi couldn't help the confident smile that spread across his face. “We're going to get out of here and bring the Red Division back with us.” 

Misaki's eyes were sparkling now, staring at Fushimi as if he hadn't just suggested the impossible. They were only two kids after all. There wasn't much two kids could do against an entire army. 

“We're really gonna do this, right, Saruhiko?” Misaki sat down next to him, craning his neck to read the words on the floor. “We're gonna save everybody.” 

“Of course we are.” Only two kids, but that didn't matter. Misaki was staring at him like every word Fushimi spoke was the truth and only the truth, and Fushimi couldn't feel a hint of doubt at all. Misaki believed in him. That was all he needed. 

They were going to show the world how strong they were, that there was more to the two of them than a pair of scrawny orphans abandoned by the world. Misaki was staring at him as if Fushimi had created the entire world there on the floor and Fushimi knew with a sudden deep conviction that there was no way his plan could fail. 

As long as they were together, nothing could beat them. 

– 

_They were going to show the world._

Fushimi felt the laugh threatening to escape from his lips as he dragged himself across the floor, half blinded and choking on the black smoke that had begun to fill the room. Really, Misaki wasn't the only idiot after all. 

His plan had been simple, or at least so he'd thought. It had seemed foolproof to him sitting there in the warehouse with Misaki. There was an ammunitions factory in the center of town. It was old and poorly run and conditions had only worsened with the occupation. The enemy troops had conscripted anyone they could to work in the factory and the few safety measures in place had grown lax and useless. It had seemed like a simple enough plan: sneak inside in the dead of night, start a few small fires and get out before the material inside could really start to burn. There was enough flammable material inside that a single spark could easily send the entire building up in flames – the perfect diversionary tactic, something big to get the attention of all the soldiers in town including those stationed at the gates. In the commotion Fushimi thought it should be easy enough for him and Misaki to slip out the town gates unnoticed and make a run for the nearest city and the train line, where rumor had it the Red Division was stationed planning their next strike. 

It should have been easy and Fushimi still wasn't certain how he'd managed to fail all the same. 

In retrospect he thought that maybe he should have seen it coming, should have known it would all go wrong from the moment he'd entered the factory. He'd been able to get inside easily, having investigated beforehand and noted the rusted lock on one of the side entrances. The plan had been for him to slip inside, close the door behind him and make his way forward in the dark unseen. Fushimi had chosen to be the one to infiltrate the factory because he was better at starting fires and besides it was no good trusting a stealth mission to Misaki. 

That plan had changed the moment he'd shut the door and the walls had begun to close in on him, darkness creeping up from all sides and all the air sucked from his lungs. Fushimi had tried to push forward on trembling legs, tried to breathe deep and remind himself that he wasn't afraid of the dark anymore – had never been afraid of the dark, not for along time now – but in the end he'd been unable to move even a step forward. He'd had to leave the side door open instead, let the moonlight pool on the floor and the cool night air blow inside so that he could finally breathe. 

From there Fushimi had at least managed to set the first fire and then waited until it began to creep towards the poorly-secured kegs of gunpowder and bullet casings before making his way back towards the door. He'd reached it just in time to see the last vestiges of moonlight disappear as a black gloved hand slid the door shut and even before he'd uselessly attempted to pull it back open Fushimi had known that he was caught. Trapped. 

Maybe his calculations had been off, maybe he'd missed something. Maybe the scheduled rotation of the soldiers had changed somehow or someone had spotted him when he'd made his way inside, alerted the army. Maybe someone had noted the door that he'd been forced to leave open due to his own weakness and that had given him away. Either way, there was no way of escaping through that side door and he had no other alternative. He could try the front door, of course, Fushimi knew that. There was a bolt that could be opened from inside, he'd seen it when he'd crossed the darkened floor in search of the best place to set the fire. 

Fushimi felt the cold smile cross his face again, mind filled with memories of _another_ fire, and he knew exactly what would happen if he went out the front door instead. 

Something suddenly exploded to his left and Fushimi recoiled, a burning pain blossoming just above his left eye. He could feel blood seeping along that side of his face and he stumbled against a wall, gasping for a breath that wouldn't come. The smoke had only begun to fill the room but already his lungs felt as though they were about to burst out of his chest and Fushimi glanced upwards. 

The ceiling above was dark, not a single light of day to be seen, and it felt like there was suddenly no air at all in the room. Dimly he heard the familiar laughter in his ears and Fushimi found his legs giving out from under him. 

The only consolation, he supposed, was that Misaki wasn't there with him. The building was still going to go up in flames – he couldn't hear anything except the roar of the fire but he was certain there must be quite a crowd of soldiers outside by now – and Misaki would still have a clear escape route out of town. Fushimi choked on smoke again and found himself wondering how long Misaki would stay there at the meeting spot they'd agreed upon, waiting for Fushimi to return, or if he would realize Fushimi's failure and attempt to escape while he still could. 

_Don't go._ The words were unfamiliar and clear in his mind and he couldn't stop them, couldn't stop the hope that Misaki wouldn't leave that spot, that he would stay until it was too late to run all for Fushimi's sake, and even as the words crossed his mind Fushimi hated himself for it. 

_Misaki._ It was the beat of his heart as he crawled uselessly along the floor like an ant, like a mouse hunting in the dark for a tunnel. There was no way out this time, though, and Fushimi's hands clenched against the hard floor as he coughed up smoke. 

So useless. So weak. A stupid child with a child's plan and now there was nothing at all he could do but wait and see what killed him first, the smoke or the fire. 

Suddenly he was jerked upwards into the air by his collar and Fushimi made a strangled choking noise. There was a strong hand holding onto the back of his shirt as though he was a disobedient kitten and Fushimi felt a moment of disorientation as he was thrown over a broad shoulder and he stared down hazily into the eyes of a lion. 

His entire body froze even as Fushimi's mind sluggishly registered that it wasn't an animal holding him at all, it was a _man,_ red-haired and golden-eyed, with part of his jacket pulled up over his nose and mouth. He was strolling through the flames as if taking a walk in a garden, not showing even the smallest sign of effort as he carried Fushimi straight towards the now-ajar front door of the factory and out into the night air. 

As soon as they were clear of the fire Fushimi's lungs immediately rebelled and he felt himself coughing and choking, desperate for breath. The man threw him down to the ground and began roughly slapping his back, and dimly it occurred to Fushimi that the man's military coat was covered in gold braids and various dangling symbols and he wore a red armband over one arm. 

So the Red Division had been outside town after all. 

“Mikoto! What the hell did you think you were--” Another man came running up to them, his uniform similar but notably less decorated. Fushimi found himself thinking that surely that was important for some reason but he couldn't seem to grasp why. The other man's voice cut off as he stared down at Fushimi crouched there weakly on the ground and he gave an exasperated but somehow fond sigh. “Honestly, the building's about to collapse, you know?” 

“Yeah.” 'Mikoto' shrugged, as if strolling into burning buildings was something he did every day. Fushimi felt a laugh bubbling up and he tried to choke it down, certain that if it came out it would be borderline hysterical and that was _just_ what he needed, after everything. 

“You know I would've had to explain it to Anna if you died.” The other man sighed heavily but anything else he might have said was cut off by Fushimi coughing again. The man eyed him seriously for a moment and then looked back at Mikoto. “He should probably be taken to the med tent. I'll call someone.” 

“Don't bother.” Mikoto shrugged and Fushimi found himself hoisted into the air again, thrown over Mikoto's shoulder like useless baggage. 

Thrown into the air like useless baggage and there was nothing he could do but dangle there limply as Mikoto walked away, watching as the building smoldered behind them. 

Mikoto carried him to a tent set up just outside of town. Fushimi could see a few other soldiers with red armbands running around, taking care of any civilians who had been wounded in whatever sort of attack had gone down while Fushimi had been stuck inside the factory. The soldiers saluted to Mikoto as he went past and he accepted the gestures with only a calm nod. 

There was a momentary swimming sensation as Fushimi was dragged off Mikoto's shoulder and laid onto the ground in front of one of the soldiers working the med tent. Mikoto placed a hand heavy on his shoulder and Fushimi thought he might have smiled before he turned and walked away without another word, leaving Fushimi behind to be taken care of. 

The burning sensation in his lungs was finally starting to fade and Fushimi leaned back on his palms as the soldier assigned to him handed him a glass of water and told him to wait where he was until someone could come by and take a look at his eye. Then Fushimi was left there alone, waiting for his breathing to even out. 

_So stupid._ Fushimi stared down into the cup of water and he felt his fingers clench again. _I was..._

“Saruhiko!” 

“Misaki?” It came out as a hoarse croak but it didn't matter because a moment later Misaki was there throwing his arms around Fushimi's neck and crying, blabbering a million things so quickly Fushimi could barely keep up: something about deciding to go after Fushimi when he didn't show up at the meeting place on time, about being spotted and nearly cornered and then being saved by the timely arrival of the Red Division. Just as the rumors had suggested, the Red Division had been stationed outside the town for some time plotting the perfect time to attack and had seen the burning building as an opportunity. 

“I was so—I was so worried--” There was a definite hiccup in Misaki's voice, a catch that Fushimi hadn't heard before. “I thought you were going to die—I thought--” 

He buried his head in Fushimi's collar for a moment and Fushimi's entire body felt strangely numb, the burns and the pain fading away to a dull hum in the back of his mind. 

“I thought you were dead.” Misaki's hand tightened over his and he looked up. “I wanted to go after you but Mikoto-san said—oh! You met Mikoto-san, right?” 

Misaki's eyes were shining and Fushimi felt something like a shudder run through his body. 

“He's the Captain of the Red Division.” Misaki's voice was hushed, almost reverent, and somehow Fushimi felt as though the light in the tent had dimmed, the air going thin and he tried to breathe, keep breathing. “I asked him – I asked him to save you, and–” He swallowed hard and then smiled. “You should have seen him when they stormed the gates, Saruhiko! It was like...like a real hero.” 

_“We're gonna save everybody.”_

_“Of course we are.”_

Fushimi could hear their own words in the back of his mind, hollowed out by fire, and he didn't reply. 

_So stupid. So stupid._

_Such a failure._

“Saruhiko?” Misaki's voice made him look up. “You—you _are_ okay, right? You're not hurt?” 

He was still clutching tight to Fushimi's hand and his eyes were wide and concerned. Fushimi felt something like blood rising in the back of his throat and he swallowed hard, forced it down. He was vaguely aware of the scent of smoke still lingering on the wind, smoldering, and Fushimi wondered if he went outside if he would be able to see the stars at all. 

“I'm fine.” 

_Breathe._

_Keep breathing._

_VII. Tattoo -side Yata-_

_Saruhiko could have died._

It was all Yata could think as he waited there in the med tent, Saruhiko sitting by his side, silent except for the occasional cough. 

His mind was still trying to completely grasp what had happened. He could remember seeing smoke off in the distance, the terrifying moment when it had occurred to him that _Saruhiko might not make it out._ He'd immediately abandoned all thoughts of their plan then, had left his hiding place and made a beeline straight for the center of town. At the time he hadn't even cared about being spotted by soldiers and possibly killed himself. He'd only been able to think about Saruhiko. 

_I should have gone with him._ Yata's fist clenched and he tried to swallow down the lump that was suddenly building in his throat. He couldn't think about that now. They were both safe. They'd been saved by a real hero, just like Yata had always hoped. 

And even as the words crossed his mind the tent flap opened and Yata couldn't help staring wide-eyed as the Red Captain Suoh Mikoto himself walked in, flanked by his Lieutenant Kusanagi. 

“Glad to see you two doing well.” Kusanagi crouched down beside them, leaning over to take a look at Saruhiko. Yata could feel Saruhiko stiffen uncomfortably beside him and he gave Saruhiko's hand a reassuring squeeze. Saruhiko didn't show any sign that he'd felt it, staring ahead blankly as Kusanagi continued to examine his injuries. Yata wondered if Saruhiko was annoyed with Yata for holding onto his hand like this – Saruhiko didn't like being touched sometimes and he'd been scowling and silent the whole time they'd been waiting for someone to come look at him. Saruhiko hadn't pulled his hand away though and Yata somehow couldn't make his own hand let go, too aware of what he'd almost lost. 

“Doesn't look too bad.” Kusanagi sat back with a slight smile. “You two are some pretty resourceful kids, huh? Plannin' all this yourselves.” 

“Y-yes!” Yata stuttered out the words when Saruhiko didn't reply, throat probably still too sore from coughing. 

“You two have parents?” Mikoto spoke up and Yata started slightly in surprise before his shoulders slumped and he looked away, not quite able to face the man who had saved Saruhiko's life. He felt Saruhiko's skin tense under his hand. 

“That's nothin' to be ashamed of.” Kusanagi laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “In times like these, it's not surprising. You two have each other, right?” 

“Right.” Yata smiled shakily at Saruhiko who returned the expression with his own tentative smile, the first one since they'd parted earlier that night, and it suddenly made Yata feel a little more confident. “Um...Kusanagi-san...what are you guys gonna do now? Are you staying here?” 

“I'm afraid not.” Kusanagi smiled thinly. “We'll leave a few soldiers stationed here to help get the town back on its feet but it's up to the Gold General after that. We've got one more mission to get started on and then we need to get back to our own base.” 

“Then...” He'd almost lost Saruhiko. The thought wouldn't be erased from his mind – he'd been too weak to hold onto Saruhiko's hand when it meant the most and he'd almost lost Saruhiko because of it. If he wanted to become someone who could protect the people he loved – protect, instead of losing them again and again – he needed to get stronger. “Take us with you.” 

“Huh?” Kusanagi gave a blank look, clearly blindsided, and Yata felt Saruhiko jolt a little beside him as well. Yata didn't dare look at him but he could feel Saruhiko's gaze heavy at his back. 

“Take us with you,” Yata repeated, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “You—you guys can do that right? I don't...” Yata thought he might be shaking, fingers digging a little into Saruhiko's hand. Saruhiko's skin jumped under his fingers just a bit but he didn't pull away. “We were too weak to be any help this time, right? We couldn't do anything at all, not really, so...so we want to get stronger. I have to get stronger, so...” _So that I can protect Saruhiko,_ and the words couldn't get around the lump in his throat. 

“Sure.” He looked up sharply at the sound of Mikoto's voice. He was leaning against the thin walls of the tent, looking bored, but the words had been clear. 

“Hey, Mikoto...” Kusanagi sighed heavily, putting a hand to his forehead. “Really, we can't just take in any stray kids we come across, you know? This is the army we're talking about.” 

“It's fine.” Mikoto was looking back at Yata with a measuring gaze that made him want to sit up straighter, made him want to be worthy of the trust that Yata could feel was being placed in him. Mikoto smiled slightly at Kusanagi. “I'll take care of it.” 

“'Take care of it,' he says.” Kusanagi shook his head but he was smiling all the same. “Well, I guess I can't argue with 'the Captain,' can I?” 

“Really?” Yata exchanged a glance with Saruhiko, who stared back at him with an unreadable expression. “You mean we can go with you?” 

“Hmm...well, you can't come back with us now,” Kusanagi said, looking thoughtful. “We've got another mission to complete and I'm not draggin' some untrained kids along to get killed.” Yata wilted visibly and Kusanagi gave him an encouraging look. “Hey, don't look like that. Mikoto said he'll let you two join up so you're still in. What's the nearest train station to here?” 

“The next city over.” Saruhiko was the one to reply, his voice sounding flat and a little hoarse, and Yata looked at him curiously. 

“All right. I'm guessin' it's a bit of a walk, so we'll leave you some money to pay for your way there. Then I'll have someone meet you at the train station to get you to our base at Shizume. Sound good to you?” Kusanagi was talking to them both but he seemed to be looking more at Saruhiko and there was an edge to his expression that Yata couldn't really understand. 

“Y-yeah!” Yata squeezed Saruhiko's hand again and this time Saruhiko squeezed back, almost hesitantly, and Yata gave him the brightest smile he could manage. 

They were finally going to get out of this place, together. 

– 

“Wow.” Yata stared up with wide eyes at the tall buildings surrounding them, clutching the rucksack that contained what few belongings he had tightly in his hands. “Saruhiko, look at this place! It's so... _big.”_

It had been three days since the failed attack at the factory, three days of preparing to leave the place that Yata had started thinking of as his home. Kusanagi had given them some money and directions on how to get to the train station and then he and Mikoto had left to finish up directing their own people in cleaning up the town. Saruhiko had still been looking pale and drawn by then and so the two of them had ended up falling asleep in the med tent, woken only by another one of the Red Division soldiers hours later. 

They'd set out on foot, something Yata hadn't been particularly looking forward to. Their little town was pretty far from the nearest city and the terrain wasn't the best, the roads old and worn and only a few houses dotting the landscape here and there. They could see the railroad tracks in the distance and had followed along those for a while until Saruhiko complained about the smell of smoke in the air. He'd started looking tired too after only an hour or so and they'd ended up having to stop and rest for a bit. That was when they'd finally hit another stroke of luck, a farm truck passing through delivering livestock and produce to the city markets. Saruhiko had used some of the money Kusanagi had given them to pay their way and they'd hitched a ride all the way to the city. 

“Stop gawking like an idiot, Misaki.” Saruhiko slung his own rucksack over his shoulder. Kusanagi had left them each a bag to gather their things in but Yata knew that Saruhiko hadn't taken much. He'd been strangely quiet the last couple days, spending most of his time sitting silently on his mattress looking at the plans still laid out in chalk on the floor. When Yata asked about his eye he said it didn't hurt anymore but for all that Yata thought that it must still be bothering him a little and that was why he'd been acting so weird. 

He'd probably be feeling better once they got out of this place and arrived at Shizume, and Yata's face brightened at the thought. 

_We're really doing this._ He shot Saruhiko an encouraging smile and Saruhiko stared back at him blankly. _We're finally gonna be able to do something about this shitty world._

“Where do you think the train station is?” Yata wondered, glancing around at the busy streets that surrounded them. There were more people than he'd ever seen in their little scrub town, all hurrying from place to place along the sidewalks. There were even quite a few cars driving along the well-maintained roads and Yata thought with a slight smile that Saruhiko's old trick wouldn't work at all here, he'd be run over in no time. 

“I asked the truck driver after he let us off,” Saruhiko said, scanning their surroundings for a moment before setting off with a determined pace. “He said it was near the northern part of town and we couldn't miss it.” 

“Someone's gonna be there waiting for us, right?” Yata fidgeted slightly as he hurried to catch up to Saruhiko. “I mean...Kusanagi-san said he'd send someone.” 

“Right.” Saruhiko's voice was bland and emotionless and impulsively Yata grabbed for his hand again. 

“Are you sure you're all right, Saruhiko?” Yata resisted the urge to put a hand on Saruhiko's forehead, just to be sure he wasn't secretly sick and hiding it again. “You haven't really been talking to me much the past couple days, you know.” 

“I'm fine. My throat hurts a little.” Saruhiko paused and then Yata felt him relax just a bit, enough so that someone who didn't really know him wouldn't have even been able to tell. Yata could feel it though, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little and his fingers uncurling slightly in an answering touch against Yata's hand. “Someone will be there. We're part of the Red Division now, aren't we?” 

There was something a little odd in the way he said the second part, something almost like mockery but not quite, and Yata shook off the feeling. Saruhiko was hard read as it was, and Yata was probably just misunderstanding him again. 

Saruhiko had said he was fine, after all, and if those words had been a lie Yata was certain he of all people would have been able to tell the difference. 

The train station was right where they'd been told it would be, huge and made all of black stone and Yata wasn't the only one who stopped for a moment to stare at it with wide eyes. He shot Saruhiko an amused smile and Saruhiko immediately recovered himself, shaking his head and tightening his grip on Yata's hand as he dragged him forward into the station. 

There were more people crowded into the station than Yata had ever seen inside a single building and the two of them were immediately pressed close together by the crowd. Yata felt Saruhiko tense a little and ran his thumb absently over Saruhiko's knuckles in an almost soothing motion he remembered his mother once doing for him when he'd been upset. Saruhiko didn't pull away this time, only moved a step closer as he tried to navigate their way through the crowd. 

“Excuse me!” A voice rose above the din and Yata stumbled for a moment as Saruhiko unexpectedly stopped. “Excuse me! Sorry, sorry, I almost missed you.” 

There was a man in military dress approaching them, a bag strapped to his back and a red armband around his upper arm. Yata exchanged a curious look with Saruhiko, who frowned in return. 

"Yata Misaki and Fushimi Saruhiko, right?" The man smiled and there was an easy familiarity to it that made Yata's nervousness fade instantly. "I'm Totsuka Tatara. King sent me to meet you." 

"King?" Yata repeated in confusion. Beside him he could see Saruhiko's face twisting into a slight scowl. 

“Sorry, sorry. The Red Captain.” There was a hint of a laugh in Totsuka's voice. “King is just my nickname for him. But he must have been really impressed with you two, huh? Kusanagi-san couldn't believe he invited two kids to join us so easily.” 

“We're—we're not kids!” Yata said immediately and Totsuka laughed again. 

“Right, sorry! Kusanagi-san is like that sometimes, he still calls me a kid too.” Totsuka glanced up towards one of the multiple clocks that lined the walls of the station. “Oh, looks like our train should be arriving soon. Have you two ever ridden a train before?” 

“Of course!” Yata said quickly, the sudden desire to look like something other than a stupid kid from the country forcing the lie from his mouth. Saruhiko didn't reply, only clicked his tongue and looked away, and Yata suddenly realized that he had no idea if Saruhiko had ever ridden the train or not. The realization bugged him a little, somehow, and he wasn't sure why. 

“Good, good! This should be easy for you then, right?” Totsuka winked at him and Yata felt his face growing hot, not sure if he'd been caught in the lie or not. Totsuka didn't seem to mind either way though, turning and leading him towards the outside train platform. “I've already picked up our tickets, so if you two want to follow me we'll get ready to leave.” 

“R-right!” Yata hurried after him, letting go of Saruhiko's hand for a moment in his haste to catch up. Saruhiko followed after him anyway and Yata shot him another quick smile. Saruhiko didn't reply, glancing around at the station with searching eyes. 

“Look, you can see the train coming already.” Totsuka waved him over and Yata leaned forward to stare curiously down the line of the tracks as the train pulled into the station, all black metal and smoke, looking totally different close up than it usually had when he'd spotted it from a distance passing by their old town. He was suddenly aware of Totsuka looking down at him with an almost fond expression and Yata quickly turned his gaze back onto Saruhiko, not wanting to look like some country idiot who'd never seen a train before in front of someone from the Red Division. Totsuka didn't say anything about it, though, only told them to follow him as the train slowed to a stop. 

“All right, Yata, Fushimi, stay close to me. Keep hold of your things for now, all right?” Totsuka waved them forward towards where a line was beginning to form near one of the opening doors of the train. They were immediately pushed up close again by the press of people and Yata noticed that Saruhiko's breathing seemed to be a bit shallower than usual. Yata shot him a concerned glance but Saruhiko didn't even look up. 

Once they reached the front of the line Totsuka handed the man watching the door three tickets, which were stamped and then handed back. Totsuka gestured for Yata and Fushimi to follow him and Yata swallowed hard as he took his first step inside the train. 

It was bigger inside than he'd expected, with a carpeted corridor trailing along the train cars on both sides. It was slightly darker inside than it had been outside, small fancy-looking lamps lining the walls between the doors that led to the seating compartments. Totsuka took a moment to glance at the number written on the doorway above them before stepping forward. Yata hurried to catch up and then stopped short when he realized that the steady presence behind him had vanished. 

“Saruhiko?” Yata turned back to look for him. 

Saruhiko was still standing near the doorway of the train car looking as though he might be sick, face even paler than normal. His breathing was coming in fast shallow pants and his hands were balled into tight fists at his side. 

“Saruhiko! What's wrong?” Immediately Yata ran back to him, putting an arm around his shoulders to steady him. Rather than pulling away as he'd half-expected Saruhiko leaned into Yata instead, eyes partially closed and body shaking lightly against Yata's frame. “H-hey, what is it? Are you sick? Did you get hurt?” 

Saruhiko didn't seem to be able to reply, only shook his head as one hand reached up and grasped tightly to Yata's arm. He still seemed like he was having trouble breathing and Yata shot Totsuka a worried glance as the man walked back over to him. 

“Totsuka-san! Saruhiko's--” 

“Ah, it's your first time after all, huh, Saru-kun?” Totsuka's voice was calm but not unkind, and despite his condition Saruhiko still managed to shoot him a glare at the familiar form of address. Totsuka ignored the look and turned to Yata instead. “Let's get him to our compartment. We'll open a window and get him a little fresh air, all right?” 

“Okay...” Yata bit his lip as he followed after Totsuka, supporting a still unsteady Saruhiko as they walked. 

“Here, this one's ours.” Totsuka stopped at one door, pulling it open and then reaching over to take Yata's and Saruhiko's rucksacks as Yata helped Saruhiko inside. The compartment was a little cramped looking, a small room with a bench on either side and a single closed window. Totsuka stowed their luggage underneath one of the benches as Yata helped Saruhiko down onto the other before moving to open the window. 

The fresh air seemed to calm Saruhiko down a little but his breathing was still shaky and Yata pulled himself onto the bench beside him, placing a reassuring hand on his back. 

“It's all right,” Totsuka said quietly, giving Yata an encouraging smile. “Some people get nervous being in an enclosed space like this for the first time. I'm sure Fushimi will get used to it after a bit.” 

“I'm fine.” Saruhiko's voice was hoarse and guttural still as he weakly shoved Yata away. 

“Ah, but--” Yata started to protest and Fushimi clicked his tongue as he sagged against the open window. Yata hunched his shoulders a little, feeling suddenly deflated. 

The feeling lasted until the train gave a sudden lurch and began to move. Yata raised his head, staring out the window and in moments he was perched up on his knees trying to get a closer look. 

“Saruhiko, look! Hey, is that a town there too? Saruhiko, come on, look!” Yata couldn't help but shake Saruhiko's shoulder, enthralled by the way the scenery flashed by. The movement of the train was a little unsteadier than Yata had expected but there was a feeling of speed and exhilaration Yata had never felt before and he decided that he definitely needed to ride the train more. 

He felt Saruhiko stir beside him, moving to look out the window himself and Yata gave him a hesitant smile. 

“Hey. You okay?” 

“Mmm.” Saruhiko made only a small noise in reply, apparently not quite trusting his voice yet. His breathing seemed to be better but Yata couldn't help but notice that he was still looking paler than usual. 

“Be careful, sometimes it's easy to get motion-sick on your first train ride,” Totsuka spoke up, digging around in his own bag. Yata couldn't help the nervous laugh that escaped his lips at the words 'first train ride.' “Here, I've probably got some water in here. Oh, or I've got some snacks for us too! Once the air starts circulating a little more you should feel better, Fushimi. I'm sure you'll be feeling fine by the time we reach Shizume Base.” 

“Do you ride the train a lot, Totsuka-san?” Yata couldn't recall if he'd heard about the army taking the train but he supposed they had to get from their main base to all the small outer cities and towns somehow. 

“Sometimes. I'm not really a part of the main army though, so I have to travel by myself a lot.” 

“Wait, you're not in the army?” Yata asked, confused, and Totsuka laughed sheepishly. 

“I guess I'm more like...a mascot, I guess? Or a lion tamer. Something like that.” Totsuka shrugged. “Oh, don't worry though. I'm still a member of the Red Division. King appointed me into Homra himself.” 

“Homra?” Yata repeated curiously. Saruhiko swayed a little in his seat, staring fixedly out the window. 

“The Red Division's elite unit,” Totsuka said. “The base we're headed to, Shizume, that's where the Red and Blue Divisions are stationed. The full number of members is pretty big, especially since the trainees stay there too – that's where you two will start, by the way, at the Red Division's trainee camp. But the soldiers who show the most promise – those are the ones that get invited to be part of Homra. Here, wait, let me show you two something, okay?” 

Totsuka turned around and tugged awkwardly at his uniform, pulling it down a bit so that they could see the red flame mark tattooed just below his left shoulder. 

“What's that?” It looked like a deep red like a flame against Totsuka's skin and Yata felt something inside him stir at the sight of it. The tattoo had obviously been done by someone skilled, the lines clean and sharp, and Yata had never seen one quite like it. 

_Homra. An elite unit._

“A brand.” Saruhiko's cold voice broke in unexpectedly on his thoughts. Totsuka didn't seem at all surprised or offended by Saruhiko's words, only pulled his uniform back up and looked back at them with the same calm friendly smile. 

“It's a tattoo,” he said. “Everyone in Homra has one. Well, technically it's voluntary but no one's refused yet. King just got his done first and then Kusanagi-san and I did it and soon everyone wanted one!” He laughed easily and Yata felt a smile form on his own face. 

“It's like a symbol though, right?” There was a deep rush of longing surging through Yata that he couldn't quite explain and he thought his heart might be beating a little faster than before.”Like...like it shows you're all comrades, right?” 

“Right.” Totsuka was giving him that look again, like someone watching over him, and it made Yata feel suddenly self conscious. He put a hand on Saruhiko's shoulder instead and tried to focus his gaze back out at the scenery streaming past them through the window. 

It was half a day before the train finally slowed to a stop at the station in Shizume City, by which time Yata's interest in the scenery had waned considerably and Saruhiko's face had gone from pale to green. Yata stood up shakily on sore legs and tried to ignore the amused look Totsuka gave them as he and Saruhiko helped each other off the train. 

Saruhiko took a deep breath as they stepped out into the open air and Yata looked at him curiously. Totsuka stepped past them both, waving to someone in the crowd. 

“Anna-chan! You came to meet us?” Yata looked up as a young girl came walking through the crowd of people. She was dressed in elaborate red clothes and something about her style of dress along with her pale hair and calm expression made Yata think of one of Megumi's dolls. 

“Tatara.” She smiled slightly at him and Totsuka put a hand on her head. 

“Yata, Fushimi, this is Anna-chan. She's King's little sister.” 

“Ah! N-nice to meet you.” Yata gave an awkward bow, feeling the heat rise in his face again. Beside him he heard Fushimi give a small chuckle and Yata shot him a glare. 

“Anna-chan lives in the city,” Totsuka continued. Anna was looking at them both curiously and Yata felt himself wilt a little under her gaze. He wasn't really the best at dealing with girls. 

_She's just like Megumi,_ he told himself and suddenly his hand burned with remembered pain. 

There was a soft touch against his arm and Yata looked down to see Anna staring at him. 

“S-sorry.” Yata swallowed hard. The last thing he needed was to start tearing up for no reason whatsoever. 

“It's all right.” Anna smiled at him and Yata felt a little more at ease somehow. 

“Are we going to stand here all day?” Saruhiko's bored voice broke the silence and Totsuka laughed. 

“Right, we'd better get going. You two have had a long day already.” 

“We're fine!” Yata said quickly, jogging to keep up as Totsuka led them out of the station. Shizume City wasn't as large as the one where they'd boarded the train but it was still larger than the place they'd come from and he kept his gaze fixated on Totsuka and Anna walking in front of him, determined not to stare like an idiot this time. 

“Hey!” Yata fell back suddenly as he collided with something hard. “What are you--” 

“Watch where you're going, idiot!” There was a kid with light hair lying on the ground in front of him, rubbing at his head. He didn't look much older than Anna. 

“S-sorry,” Yata muttered sheepishly as the kid climbed to his feet, glaring. His clothes were noticeably tattered and he looked thin, and Yata suddenly felt uncomfortable without knowing why. 

“Hmph. Stupid country bumpkins.” The kid snorted and turned to leave, Yata still sitting there dumbly on the ground. 

“Hey.” Saruhiko's voice made them both turn. “Give it back.” 

“What's your problem?” The kid curled his lip as he spoke. “I didn't take anything from him. You can't call the police without any proof you know--” 

There was a sudden whirl of movement and the next thing Yata knew the kid was back on the ground, lying on his back with Saruhiko standing over him and holding their old pistol to the kid's head. 

“H-hey, Saruhiko!” Yata scrambled to his feet, aware of the stares they were starting to draw. “What are you doing, he's just a kid!” 

“You've gotten soft already, Misaki.” Saruhiko's eyes never wavered from the kid in front of him. “He took your wallet.” Saruhiko smirked. “Not like there's anything in there. Only an amateur would be stupid enough to rob someone like Misaki and expect to get anything out of it.” 

“Hey!” Yata snapped and the kid gave a small laugh. 

“You're pretty good, huh?” He reached into his pocket and tossed the thin familiar coin purse at Yata. “There, I gave it back. Happy?” 

“Now, now.” Totsuka stepped in, waving his hands in a calming motion. “Fushimi, why don't you let him up? We don't want to cause a scene, right?” 

Saruhiko's eyes narrowed and for a moment Yata had the distinct feeling that he wanted to train the gun on _Totsuka_ instead. Then Saruhiko clicked his tongue and holstered the pistol. Totsuka gave a soft relieved sigh. 

“Get out of here.” Saruhiko's voice was cold and the kid wasted no time getting to his feet and running off. 

“What was that all about?” Yata demanded as he ran over to Saruhiko. 

“I was just making up for your stupidity,” Saruhiko said dismissively. “Really, Misaki, that's one of the oldest tricks in the book. You're lucky he didn't make off with all your belongings.” 

“Well, it's taken care of now.” Totsuka stepped forward. His smile was a little tighter than usual as he looked over at Saruhiko. “I think that was a little too much, Fushimi.” 

“Tch.” Saruhiko clicked his tongue and crossed his arms. Anna nervously reached for the edge of Totsuka's uniform and Yata shot Saruhiko a glare. 

They walked with Anna most of the way through the city, finally leaving her in the care of a maid at a big red stone house. She waved them goodbye as they left and Totsuka promised to come back and see her in a few days. From there they continued on to the outskirts of the city and then up a sloping hill towards the military base. 

Shizume base was far different from the little outpost of Yata's hometown. The base was surrounded by high walls on all four sides and the iron gates were locked. Totsuka waved as he approached and soldiers with red armbands waved back, hurrying to open the door for them. 

“Those are some of the Red Division's soldiers,” Totsuka explained as he led them through the gates. Yata couldn't help but stare again, eyes following the movement of the soldiers as they patrolled along the high walls of the base, and it was only the sound of Saruhiko's tongue clicking again that made him realize Totsuka was still walking and was starting to leave them behind. 

“This place is so big,” Yata said as he hurried forward to match Totsuka's pace. There were soldiers everywhere, black uniforms and red armbands, marching between training grounds and various small buildings. Yata found his eyes drawn to one building in particular, a dark grey shape on the horizon that loomed over almost everything else in the base. “Totsuka-san, what's that?” 

“Hmm?” Totsuka glanced back at him. “Oh, that? That's the hospital.” There was something unidentifiable in his voice that made Yata feel as though the air had gotten chillier around them. “Everyone in the army knows basic triage – you two will learn that too, in the trainee corps – but serious cases are brought here.” He seemed to notice the way Yata's expression had dimmed and gave him another encouraging look. “Are you worried about it?” 

“Of—of course not!” Yata said quickly. “I mean...it's the army, right? So of course you'd...need...” He trailed off, glancing back at Saruhiko almost on instinct. Saruhiko's head was down though, expression unreadable. 

“Don't worry.” Totsuka gave him another gentle look. “As long as you two stick together I'm sure you'll be fine. Ah, and here we are!” 

The building he had led them to was small, just two rooms wide covered by a sloping roof. Totsuka gestured for the two of them to sit at the table in the center of the room as he went to talk with the uniformed man standing behind a glass window. Yata settled himself in one of the hard metal chairs and fidgeted slightly, still feeling uneasy. 

“I wonder what we have to do now,” he murmured to Saruhiko, who shrugged. 

“All right, Yata, Fushimi.” Totsuka proudly sat a large stack of papers in front of each of them. “Just some quick paperwork and we're done!” 

Yata stared at the pile of papers and felt his heart sink. This was definitely not the welcome he'd been expecting. 

It was at least an hour later when they finally finished, Yata feeling very strongly that he never wanted to see another piece of paperwork again for the rest of his life. The papers had been filled with questions about where they'd lived and how much training they'd had, family names and birth dates and if Saruhiko hadn't helped him fill out half of it Yata was certain he would have spent the rest of the week there at the table. 

“You guys are probably pretty tired by now, huh?” Totsuka was waiting for them by the time they'd finished. “Training starts to tomorrow but I think we can give you two a day off for today.” He gave Yata a broad wink and Yata smiled back despite his exhaustion. Saruhiko was looking a little glassy eyed beside him. “The trainee barracks are this way.” 

They were taken back across the base, Totsuka in the lead pointing out various places around them as though he was a museum tour guide showing around a class of students. 

“This side of camp is the Red Division's mostly,” Totsuka said. “But the main training grounds belong to both divisions. The mess hall's communal too, over there. The Blue Division has the south side of camp. You don't need to worry too much about them though. And here are the trainee barracks!” 

Yata looked up as they approached the building. It looked as though it had been constructed to be easily pulled apart and put back together, longer than it was high and with a curved ceiling. Inside it seemed to be made up of several large rooms containing multiple bunk beds. The rooms were all empty at the moment, the other trainees presumably busy elsewhere. 

He felt Saruhiko tense a little next to him and impulsively Yata reached for his hand again. 

“King was able to pull some strings to get you two a private room at the end of the building,” Totsuka said. “Since you two are still getting used to everything. Right over here.” 

The room Totsuka led them to was smaller than the others, with only a single shared set of drawers and one bunk bed. Totsuka ushered them both inside and then made his way to the door. 

“I'll leave you two to get settled and rest a bit. Someone will be by later to get you for dinner, all right? Good luck, Yata, Fushimi!” With that Totsuka turned to leave. Yata ran to the door and called after him. 

“Thanks, Totsuka-san!” Totsuka waved at him but didn't turn around and finally Yata stepped back into the room, letting the door close behind him. 

“So, how do we decide who gets what bed?” Yata asked. 

“Hmm?” Saruhiko looked down at him drowsily, having already climbed the ladder to the top bunk. 

“Hey!” 

“You were too slow.” The words were biting but Saruhiko was clearly already half asleep and he was staring up at the ceiling with a strangely lost expression. Yata suddenly found himself thinking about the old warehouse with the hole in the roof and the stars that they'd reflected on the floor. 

“I guess I can let you have the top bunk,” Yata said, throwing himself down onto his own bed. It wasn't as soft as his bed back with his mom and siblings but it was better than the old mattress he'd gotten used to sleeping on. It was strange though, having Saruhiko above him rather than beside, and impulsively Yata peered around the edge of the bed. “Hey. Saruhiko.” 

“What?” Saruhiko stared back down at him, expression flat and weary. 

“We did it, right? We're here.” Yata smiled at him and held out one closed fist. 

Saruhiko stared blankly back at him and for a moment Yata thought he would just turn away and go to sleep. Then with a small sound like a sigh Saruhiko reached down and lightly touched his fist against Yata's. 

“Yeah.” 

Yata gave him another encouraging smile before falling back onto the bed, letting his own eyes start to slide shut. His heart was beating wildly though and he wondered if he'd even be able to sleep despite his weariness. 

In his mind's eye he could see Totsuka's tattoo, the red flames that curled around each other. The mark that labeled him as a member of Homra, as part of something big. 

_Homra, huh?_

Totsuka had said it was an elite unit, something that you had to be chosen for. But if it was him and Saruhiko, Yata was sure that they would be able to. 

They were still together, after all. Even after everything they were still together and Yata held tightly onto that thought as he drifted off to sleep.


	4. the piece of myself that I left winding by

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took longer than expected, next chapter will be quicker ^^;;

_VII. Tattoo (side Fushimi)_

Fushimi sat on his bunk in the Red Division barracks, flipping through a book of strategy that he had stopped reading about twenty pages ago. 

Misaki was gone, off spending time with some of the other soldiers. He'd made some stupid noise about Fushimi coming along as well, since the party was for 'for him too,' and Fushimi had declined with a click of his tongue. He didn't see the point in spending any more time with their fellow recruits than absolutely necessary. 

It had been nearly a year and a half now, since they'd joined the army. They'd finally graduated from being trainees a little over six months ago and given up their private room in the trainee barracks for the more crowded general division quarters. The two of them still shared a bed of course, Fushimi on the top bunk and Yata below, but there were six others packed into the room with them and it made Fushimi feel constantly closed in and on edge. 

He didn't belong, that was all. 

Fushimi turned another page, eyes blankly skimming the words. Kusanagi had given the books to him one day after watching him at training, saying something about how Fushimi might appreciate them. He hadn't said anything more but Fushimi could sense the undertone there, the obvious reasons that Kusanagi was apparently too polite to state. 

It had been clear from the start, after all, and Fushimi wondered sometimes if he'd known it from the moment they'd set foot in camp. He wasn't like the rest of them – too skinny, too pale, too weak. When the soldier overseeing their morning training gave orders to run laps Fushimi was always last, breathing hard by the time he finished. Whenever they were timed on the obstacle course Fushimi was always the one who could only finish by cheating his way through, sneaking around the obstacles he wasn't quite strong enough to climb. The other trainees had mocked him for it at the time, wondered what he was even doing in the army in the first place. 

Misaki had threatened to beat up anyone he heard saying such things out loud, of course, and was disciplined twice a week for his trouble. Even now, with the two of them having graduated to full members of the Division, Misaki was still constantly having to yell and bluster at anyone who dared to hint at the truth Misaki was the only one too stupid to see. 

The strategy books had clearly been Kusanagi's way of trying to compensate for the fact that he'd let someone entirely unsuited into the Red Division without even bothering to vet him first. Misaki had fit in just fine – always the fastest at running laps, always able to climb any obstacle placed in front of him. The only place where Fushimi excelled was in firearms training, his shooting faster and more accurate than anyone's. Kusanagi had given him special dispensation to carry two pistols rather than the single one that was regulation and Fushimi had kept hold of the old pistol he'd rescued from the trash dump along with the one issued to him by the army. 

Strategy was his other specialty, and Fushimi knew full well how useless that was in a division that relied almost solely on brute strength the way the Reds did. Sure, there was Kusanagi himself, the man who clearly ran the entire Division despite Suoh Mikoto's title of 'Captain,' but it wasn't like they had any need for a second strategist on top of what Kusanagi was already handling. Fushimi had no illusions about that, no matter how hard Misaki tried to make it seem as if Fushimi's mind was an asset to their Division and not just another thing that marked him out as different from all the rest. 

That was what Misaki was celebrating at the moment, in fact, and Fushimi felt his lip curl. There had been a mock battle set up on the training grounds the day before, the Red Division troops split into two teams and watched over by one of the members of Homra. Misaki had of course been one of the first picked for a team and had insisted that they choose Fushimi as well. As if he expected Fushimi to be thankful for that, as if he thought Fushimi needed to be chosen out of some misplaced feeling of pity so that he wouldn't inevitably be the last soldier standing around without a team. 

He'd been dragged onto Misaki's team anyway and had easily come up with a decent strategy for taking down their opponents. They'd won with relative ease after that and Misaki hadn't been able to stop talking about it, about how Saruhiko had won the day for them. 

Hadn't been able to stop talking about it, until Suoh Mikoto walked by. 

The page tore in Fushimi's hand and he clicked his tongue in annoyance, closing the book and laying his head down on his pillow. 

It wasn't the same now. It wasn't that it _bothered_ him exactly – as though he cared where Misaki's gaze went to. He didn't need such things, didn't need those eyes and that voice to make him feel as though he was worth something. That Misaki's eyes only went to Mikoto now, that Fushimi could be forgotten so easily the moment Suoh Mikoto appeared, that was nothing. 

But Fushimi could feel it the strongest when Mikoto was near, how deeply he didn't belong here. When Misaki looked at Mikoto his eyes would brighten and he would start talking about how cool Mikoto was, how strong, how much of a hero their 'Captain' was. When Fushimi looked at Mikoto all he could see was darkness and flames and the maw of a lion bearing down upon him. As they'd stood there together celebrating their victory in the mock battle Fushimi had almost felt a smile tugging at the corner of his lips and then Mikoto had walked by, expression flat as always as he congratulated their winning team. The rest of the troops had stood up a little straighter and Misaki had run forward to tell Mikoto all about how the battle had gone. Fushimi had remained alone off to the side, trying to keep his hands from shaking. 

“Fushimi? Are you still here?” He heard a voice calling his name and Fushimi grimaced, pulling his blanket over his head as if that could help him disappear. It didn't help, and Totsuka's smiling face appeared over the edge of the bed anyway. 

“What do you want?” Fushimi's tone was dull and sulky and he didn't bother to hide his irritation at Totsuka's presence. Totsuka's smile didn't waver in the least. 

“I was looking for you,” Totsuka said. “I passed Yata talking with Kamamoto and the others. I'm surprised you weren't celebrating with them.” 

“I was tired.” Fushimi shrugged, not meeting his eyes. Kamamoto had been the Homra member in charge of overseeing the mock battle. He had also recognized Misaki the first time they'd met, saying something stupid about being in the same orphanage. Fushimi had ignored it at the time but then that fatty had started calling Misaki 'Yata-san' all the time and the rest of the troops had started staring at him like he was some kind of amazing person and not just the same stupid Misaki who Fushimi had always had to drag around everywhere to keep him from getting himself into trouble. 

“I'm getting ready to go down to the city to run some errands,” Totsuka continued, undaunted by Fushimi's lack of response. “I thought you might want to come with me.” 

Fushimi glared down at him. Totsuka stared back calmly and Fushimi sighed as he sat up. 

“You two have been working hard lately, huh?” Totsuka said conversationally as they walked across the base towards the gates. “Kusanagi-san said he's heard good things about your progress from the squad leaders.” 

“I guess.” Fushimi shrugged, noncommittal. He knew that Kusanagi occasionally looked in on them, showing up to watch during training and sometimes even during nearby missions. Mikoto showed up somewhat less often, usually looking as though he'd just rolled out of bed and happened to stumble across their unit while still half-asleep. 

(And there was the other person too, who Fushimi had spotted hovering around the edges of the training grounds from time to time. A man in glasses with a blue armband around his upper arm and a jacket as decorated as Mikoto's. Fushimi had never spoken with Munakata Reisi, the Captain of the Blue Division, and he had no idea why the man always seemed to be staring straight at him whenever Fushimi managed to catch a glimpse of him. It made him feel on edge somehow, as if Munakata was seeing something that even Fushimi himself wasn't yet aware of, and he didn't like it.) 

“Yata told me you won them the mock battle,” Totsuka continued, waving their way out the gates. Fushimi's hands twitched slightly, suddenly cold, and he shoved them into his pockets. “You're good with strategy, right?” 

“Our opponents were idiots,” Fushimi said dismissively. Totsuka's smile seemed to shake just a bit, tightening, and there was a darkness to his eyes that made Fushimi wonder if he'd said something wrong. 

“Were they?” Totsuka's voice was still light. “Is that what you really think, Fushimi?” 

“Isn't it true, though?” Fushimi challenged. “They attacked with no battle formation and no strategy except attempting to overwhelm us with brute strength. It wasn't hard to see through.” 

“Maybe,” Totsuka said, always the mediator. “But you know, Fushimi, I think they did make a plan. It just wasn't as complicated as the one you had in mind. And that's not always a bad thing. I think it's good, that you can think of ideas other people don't.” 

_You don't need to patronize me._ The words were on the tip of his tongue and Fushimi swallowed them down. Totsuka was still watching him with an almost gentle smile and it made him want to reach for one of the pistols at his waist, feel the burst of confidence that always went through him whenever he held a weapon. 

“What are we even doing here anyway?” Fushimi changed the subject instead, raising his head a little as they entered Shizume City. 

“I just need to pick up a few things,” Totsuka said. 

“You didn't need me for that though, right?” 

“I thought Fushimi might like a change of scenery,” Totsuka said brightly and Fushimi gave him a withering glare. 

“I'm fine,” he said coldly. “I don't need you to play babysitter.” 

“Isn't it nice to spend time with people sometimes, though?” Totsuka said serenely. “And I really did want you to come with me today. Ah, Anna-chan!” He stopped and waved, and Fushimi's frown deepened as he caught sight of Anna's familiar form running through the crowd. 

“Tatara. Saruhiko.” She glanced over at him, her doll-like face quiet and thoughtful, and Fushimi looked away. He didn't have anything against her, of course. It just made him uncomfortable sometimes, the way she looked at him. 

“Well, now that we're all here.” Totsuka clapped his hands together. “Let's do some shopping!” 

– 

_I want to go back._ Two hours later Fushimi trudged along behind Totsuka and Anna, dragging three bags worth of packages that Totsuka had picked up from various stores throughout the city. Every time it seemed like they were finished Totsuka would suddenly remember 'one more thing' that he needed to get and the whole thing would start all over again. 

“We're almost done, Fushimi,” Totsuka said encouragingly, glancing back at him. “I just need to get this last thing for King and we can head back.” 

“Tch.” Fushimi clicked his tongue rather than bother to reply, shooting Totsuka a glare that was summarily ignored. 

“Here we are, last stop.” Totsuka knocked once on the wooden door in front of them and then easily pushed his way inside. Fushimi sighed and began to follow, not even looking up as he stepped through the doorway. 

Darkness stretched in front of him and Fushimi realized that they had walked through a side door of the railway station. Totsuka's boots echoed easily along the wide corridors but Fushimi could barely hear them, a rush of sound suddenly flooding his ears. 

_Not now._ Fushimi grit his teeth even as his legs began to shake. He didn't need this, not again. He wasn't a child hiding in a cellar anymore, there was no need to be afraid of places where he couldn't see the sky. But looking at the dimly lit corridor in front of him all he could hear was flames roaring in his ears and _that person_ laughing, and there was a sudden sharp pain above his eye where anyone who looked closely could see the small scattering of marks where he'd been burned at the factory. 

The next thing he knew he was sitting on the steps outside the station, head in his hands as he tried to slow his breathing. Fushimi couldn't even remember turning around much less walking back through the door and his breath stuttered out in short gasps. He felt a soft hand on his shoulder and looked up. 

“It's all right.” Anna stood beside him and Fushimi laughed bitterly. 

“Shouldn't you be with Totsuka-san?” 

“Tatara went on ahead.” Anna sat down on the steps next to him. Fushimi waited for her to say something about what had happened but she remained silent, staring straight ahead at nothing. 

“I didn't turn around because I was afraid,” Fushimi said at last, after they had sat there in silence for too long. He knew there was no need to justify himself to Suoh Mikoto's little sister of all people but somehow he felt like he had to say _something._

“Mmm.” Anna nodded. “Is Saruhiko okay now?” 

“I'm fine.” The words were harsh and cold, the automatic lie he was all but daring her to call him out on. 

“Saruhiko is strong,” Anna said, not really an agreement but not a disagreement either. There was a red marble in her palm and she passed it absently from hand to hand. “It doesn't hurt anymore?” 

“No.” Fushimi leaned back to look up at the clouds. “It doesn't.” 

“It's all right,” Anna said after a moment. “Tatara won't tell anyone if you don't want him to.” 

“I don't need him fussing over me,” Fushimi said darkly. “I don't need any of you treating me like there's something wrong with me.” 

Anna turned to look at him then, holding the marble up to one eye. 

“The dark place isn't there anymore,” she said softly. “But Saruhiko is still looking for the way out.” 

Fushimi's eyes widened slightly and he stared back at her, mouth open but unable to pull up even a mocking retort in response to her words. 

“Anna, Fushimi! There you are!” Totsuka's return spared him from having to reply. 

“Mikoto.” Anna quickly got to her feet and Fushimi flinched slightly as he realized that Totsuka wasn't alone. Suoh Mikoto was walking beside him, smoking a cigarette and carrying the bags Fushimi had dropped when he'd fled the dark corridor. Mikoto smiled slightly as Anna ran up to him and took his free hand. 

“Fushimi was just keeping Anna company,” Totsuka said in offhand tones and Fushimi glared at him. He didn't need Totsuka to cover for him, to try and make him look good in front of Mikoto as if that was something Fushimi cared about at all. “I ran into King at the shop and thought we could all go back together!” 

Fushimi was suddenly uncomfortably aware of Mikoto's gaze on him and he quickly looked away. 

“Let's go back already. Don't we have drills this afternoon?” Fushimi muttered under his breath and Totsuka laughed sheepishly. 

“Right, sorry for keeping you. We'd better head back now, Kusanagi-san's probably waiting for us.” Totsuka patted Anna on the head and began to lead the way back through the streets. Fushimi's brow furrowed slightly in confusion at the last remark but he let it pass and followed after, skulking alone in the back behind Anna and Mikoto. 

They dropped Anna back off at her house before making their way towards the base. As they left Anna's house Fushimi briefly caught sight of the kid who'd once stolen Yata's wallet staring at them from the other side of the street and he placed a significant hand on the holster of one of the pistols at his side. The kid made a face and immediately ducked down an alley. Totsuka gave Fushimi a slightly concerned look but said nothing. 

Misaki was waiting for them by the gates when they got back. He ran towards them as the base came into view, waving one hand. 

“Mikoto-san! Saruhiko!” Misaki seemed a bit breathless as he stumbled to a stop. “Where have you guys been? Kusanagi-san was about to send me to find you.” 

“King and Fushimi were helping me with a few errands,” Totsuka said easily. “But good timing, Yata! Come along with us for a minute. We'll all go see Kusanagi-san together.” 

Misaki looked at Fushimi curiously and he shrugged in reply. Who ever knew what Totsuka was thinking. 

“You're so lucky, Saruhiko.” Misaki leaned in towards him as they followed Totsuka and Mikoto past the Red Division's main barracks. “You got to hang out with Mikoto-san! You should've come and found me too.” 

“Maybe if you hadn't been out with all those idiots,” Fushimi muttered under his breath. 

“Hmm? What'd you say, Saruhiko?” 

“Nothing.” 

Totsuka led them into a building Fushimi recognized as Homra's barracks and thus the Red Division's main base of operations. Kusanagi was waiting for them inside the Red Division's war room, standing behind a desk and looking a bit ragged. He gave Totsuka and Mikoto a slightly exasperated sigh as they came in. 

“There you are. Didn't I send you to get Fushimi hours ago?” 

“Sorry, sorry. Fushimi and I were having so much fun I lost track of the time,” Totsuka said with a sheepish laugh. 

“What's going on Kusanagi-san?” Misaki glanced curiously from Mikoto to Kusanagi and back again. 

“You two have been doing pretty well in the new recruits squad lately,” Kusanagi said. “I heard the mock battle went well.” 

“Yeah, we kicked their asses,” Misaki said proudly, a slight flush on his cheeks as he glanced furtively at Mikoto. “Me and Saruhiko took those other guys down like it was nothing.” 

_'Me and Saruhiko,' huh?_ Fushimi felt his stomach twist just a bit, the words that once would have filled him with confidence sounding hollow and flat to his ears, like words recited in a play. That Misaki meant them, or thought he meant them, was nothing. It wasn't the same. 

“So Mikoto and I have been thinkin' about this for a while,” Kusanagi said. “I'll admit, I wasn't sure about draggin' two kids from who knows where into this thing. But you two have proved yourselves again and again, and I think you've earned it.” 

“'Earned?'” Misaki repeated blankly and Mikoto stepped forward and extended a hand towards them. 

“We want you two to be part of Homra,” Kusanagi said simply and Misaki's entire face changed, eyes brightening and mouth going wide, almost shaking with enthusiasm as he looked over at Fushimi. 

“Wait, really? Both of us?” Misaki said, all hushed disbelief, and Fushimi bit back a grimace. Of course he should be shocked, that they would drag a dead weight like Fushimi into the Red Division's most elite unit. 

“You've both been valuable members of the Red Division, right?” Totsuka said with a smile. “Congratulations, Yata, Fushimi.” 

Misaki's face broke into a wide grin, bright as a light in a darkened tunnel, and he reached his hand towards Mikoto's. His eyes were shining and fixed solely on the Red Division's Captain, never wavering. 

Fushimi clenched his fist and stood there in silence. 

– 

Homra's mark itched. 

Fushimi walked through camp with his eyes cast downward, arms filled with papers Kusanagi had asked him to go file in the registrar's office. The fresh tattoo on his chest itched and burned but he didn't have a free hand to scratch at it. 

Mikoto had chosen the spot, as he apparently did for all members of Homra. Totsuka had said it was voluntary of course, that no one had to get the tattoo – _brand,_ his mind whispered, and he shoved the thoughts away – unless they wanted to. But Misaki had been so eager, staring at Fushimi as he chatted brightly about where Mikoto might choose to put theirs, about how amazing it was going to be for them both. 

Mikoto had placed both their tattoos in the same spot. Fushimi had no idea why and judging from Kusanagi's expression afterward it wasn't something that had been done before. Misaki had been excited, though. 

“It means we're partners, right?” Fushimi had almost believed the words then, the blood pounding in his ears as Misaki turned and looked at him and smiled. Had almost believed them when Misaki placed a fist on his chest right above the mark and talked about it again, that 'you and me,' as if nothing had changed. 

Then they'd been dragged into Homra's barracks, where everyone lived packed together in a ridiculous little family commune. There was an empty set of beds along the far wall away from everyone else but Misaki had chosen one right in the middle of everything instead, hadn't even looked to Fushimi to see his opinion, had only assumed that he would follow regardless. And then Misaki had spent all night talking with Homra's members, talking and laughing and exchanging stories while Fushimi sat in the top bunk looking down. 

That was when the tattoo had begun to itch, and it hadn't stopped since. 

All of a sudden Fushimi stumbled over something he couldn't see and with a grunt of annoyance he fell hard onto the ground, papers scattering everywhere. 

“Oh, my apologies.” 

“What the hell was that about, pay attention to where you're going next time,” Fushimi muttered irritably as he tried to collect the papers. The person he'd run into immediately crouched down beside him and Fushimi's mind suddenly registered the telltale blue armband of the Blue Division and the Captain's stripes on the familiar uniform. Fushimi ducked his head and added a half-hearted “...sir.” 

“No, no, I believe the fault was mine. You are uninjured, I hope?” Munakata Reisi's voice was calm but there was something beneath the veneer of politeness that made Fushimi's nerves go taut suddenly, on alert. Munakata seemed to notice the slight change in demeanor and though his expression never wavered Fushimi had the definite sense that he was _pleased._

“I'm fine.” Fushimi clicked his tongue as he started to gather up the fallen reports, trying to ignore the heaviness of Munakata's gaze. 

“Please, allow me.” Munakata reached over to help him. “How unusual to see one of the Red Division in this section of the base.” 

“It can't be helped, can it? Someone has to deliver the expense report.” Fushimi kept his voice clipped and short, wanting to leave as soon as possible. 

“And it seems you have been delegated to this task, Fushimi Saruhiko-kun,” Munakata said calmly. Fushimi paused and eyed him suspiciously, and Munakata only laughed in reply. “I make it my business to know all the members of each division. Particularly those who are also members of the elite squad.” 

“Creepy,” Fushimi muttered under his breath, reaching for the last paper. Munakata's hand moved at the same time, brushing against his, and Fushimi froze. 

“Of course, I must admit I have an ulterior motive for knowing your name,” Munakata continued. His tone was conversational, almost friendly, but there was a definite seriousness behind it that did nothing to make Fushimi less on edge. “You seem to be rather out of place among Suoh's men.” 

“Tch.” _You think I don't know that._ Fushimi looked down abruptly, not even bothering to give a proper answer. 

“Nonetheless, you have managed to show great promise despite being placed in a position wholly unworthy of your talents.” Munakata straightened up, handing Fushimi the last paper. “I heard from the Red Division's Lieutenant that he has been working with you on the strategy for retaking Ashinaka, is that correct?” 

“Yes. Sir.” The Ashinaka mission was new, something he and Kusanagi had been working on for the past few days. It was a minor town noted more for its university than anything but Homra had been ordered to retake it from the Greens and Kusanagi seemed to think it should be an easy enough win with the right strategy. 

“Most impressive.” Munakata gave him a perfectly affable smile that reminded Fushimi of a scabbard covering a sword, decoration hiding a blade. “I happen to have need of a strategist in my division. Should the Red Division fail to live up to your expectations, please come to my office.” 

“What?” Fushimi couldn't help but be caught off guard for a moment. Munakata remained unruffled, as if he hadn't just said something outrageous. Division transfers weren't unheard of, of course, but they were fairly rare and even more so when they involved elite units like Homra. The tattoo itched again and Fushimi bit his lip. 

“Please keep my offer in mind.” Munakata was already walking away, leaving Fushimi to stare blankly after him. “I do hope we have a chance to speak again, Fushimi-kun.” 

Then he was gone, leaving Fushimi standing frozen behind him. Fushimi's hands clenched around the papers and he shook his head, walking forward with his head down. 

It was ridiculous, of course. Munakata was undoubtedly just playing with him and Fushimi didn't see the point in thinking about it. Even if he didn't belong in Homra – and he didn't, he didn't, from the moment they stepped foot in camp Fushimi knew that he didn't – Misaki was still here. He was still in Misaki's world, and that was enough. That had to be enough. 

When he finally returned to the barracks Misaki was gone, though, leaving only a note for Fushimi that he and some of the others had all decided to take advantage of the momentary respite between missions to go down to Shizume and enjoy themselves a little. 

_You can come and join us once you get back, Saruhiko!_ Fushimi read the words and his face twisted in a grimace for just a moment before he dragged himself onto his own bunk and pulled out another one of Kusanagi's strategy books. 

_Please keep my offer in mind._ Munakata's words echoed in his head and Fushimi's hand reached up to scratch at the tattoo on his chest. 

_VIII. left eye (right hand)_

It was an easy mission. 

Yata kept repeating that in his head as he listened to Kusanagi lay out the plan. His hand itched and he scratched idly at his palm, biting his lip as he tried to keep his eyes on the map in front of him and not on Saruhiko sitting there next to Kusanagi listening to the whole thing with a bored look on his face. 

It was going to be an easy mission. 

Yata nodded his head absently as if to remind himself of the words. How hard could it be, really? The Colorless Guard had set up a makeshift base some miles east of Shizume, just along the boundary between the already conquered territory and the land the United Colors still held, and they had built some kind of communications tower on the sloping hill nearby. The Red Division had picked up intel that the tower was being used to jam their own communications and it had been decided that Homra would go take care of it. 

It didn't seem that hard. Even with just sending the core members of Homra they had the numerical advantage, and the tower seemed to be less well guarded than the base itself. All they had to do was reach it and send someone to disable whatever jammer was being used there. Simple. Easy. 

But there was really only one person in Homra who had the skill to properly disable the jammer, especially if it was in any way primed to backfire on someone who tried to simply destroy it rather than rewire it. Saruhiko _had_ to be the one to scale the tower, there was no way around it. 

Meaning that for the first time since they'd joined Homra, Yata and Saruhiko would be fighting alone. 

_Not alone,_ Yata reminded himself fiercely. He'd be working with the best of Homra to subdue the soldiers in the base. And Saruhiko would be with _Mikoto,_ so there was no way he'd be in trouble. They'd complete the mission and then meet back up and everything would be fine. There was nothing to worry about. 

“Yata-chan!” Kusanagi's sharp voice snapped him out of his thoughts. 

“Y-yes!” Yata immediately sat up straighter and Kusanagi sighed. Next to him Saruhiko rolled his eyes and Yata glared at him. 

“Pay attention, all right?” Kusanagi shook his head, though he was smiling. “We're movin' out in ten minutes, okay?” 

“...Right.” Yata laughed sheepishly as everyone began to separate, checking their weapons and looking over the map in preparation for the attack. Kamamoto gave Yata a slap on the back and a smile as he passed and Yata nodded in reply, already moving to join Saruhiko who was still staring down at the map. 

“Did you hear a word Kusanagi-san said, Misaki?” Saruhiko's voice was hushed as always but there was a hint of amusement in it. 

“I did! I was listening the whole time!” Yata stopped, grabbing at his wrist with one hand to keep himself from reaching for Saruhiko the way he always seemed to do when he felt uncomfortable. They were soldiers of Homra now, he shouldn't need to hold Saruhiko's hand like a little kid every time he felt worried. “Saruhiko...be careful, all right?” 

“Shouldn't I be telling you that?” Saruhiko clicked his tongue. “You're the idiot who's always running into trouble and wasn't even listening to the plan.” 

“Shut up,” Yata grumbled. His stomach still felt tight but he managed to smile anyway. “I mean it, okay? The last time I let you do a mission by yourself you almost got killed.” 

He could still remember it, the panic building his throat as he realized that Saruhiko wasn't going to make it out of the factory. 

“You didn't 'let' me do anything,” Saruhiko said darkly, eyes averted. “That was my plan, remember?” 

“Yeah, and this one is your plan too so I have to be worried,” Yata said with forced cheer, trying to lighten the mood. He knew he'd failed when the shadows seemed to gather thicker in Saruhiko's eyes. Yata risked moving closer, placing a hesitant hand on his shoulder. “Just...watch out for yourself? Please?” 

“I'll be fine,” Saruhiko muttered, though he didn't pull away from Yata's hand. “I'll have 'Mikoto-san' with me, won't I?” There was something dark and bitter in the last sentence and Yata looked at him curiously. 

Before he could say anything else he heard Kusanagi calling for everyone to get prepared to move out. Yata glanced back at Saruhiko one more time before turning to go join the rest of the force. Suddenly he stopped and turned back again. 

“Saruhiko.” Saruhiko looked up at last and Yata held out a fist to him. “I'll...I'll see you after the mission. Right?” 

Saruhiko looked at him for a long moment and then finally a tentative smile wound its way across his face as he lightly touched his fist against Yata's. 

“After the mission.” 

Yata nodded, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat as he finally turned away from Saruhiko. He was nearly towards where the others were waiting when he almost ran into Mikoto. Mikoto nodded at him as he passed and Yata looked up at him. 

“Mikoto-san...” He couldn't quite bring himself to say it. Mikoto gave him a slight smile anyway and touched a hand to his shoulder. 

“I'll take care of 'im.” The hand removed itself and Mikoto walked back towards Saruhiko without another word. Even so, Yata felt as though a weight had been lifted off of him. 

Everything was going to be fine. Mikoto was with Saruhiko and there was nobody stronger than the Red Division's Captain. They would meet up afterward and everything would be fine. 

It was an easy mission, after all. 

– 

“Where are all these guys _coming_ from?” Yata heard Dewa swear as he took down another approaching soldier. It had started raining hard a few minutes ago and it was difficult to see the rest of Homra through the pouring rain and the blood that was dripping down his face. 

Yata didn't really get where things had gone wrong, only that they had. There were twice as many soldiers in the base as the report had said and instead of an easy win they'd found themselves fighting for their lives against dozens of enemy soldiers. Yata's pistol had already run out of bullets and he'd resorted to using it as a club along with his fists. The Colorless soldiers didn't seem to be as well trained as Homra was but there were far more of them and even Yata's endurance was being pushed to the limit. 

“Kusanagi-san!” Yata glanced over as Fujishima came running towards them. “There are more of them coming! What should we do?” 

Kusanagi looked worn out and somehow that made Yata feel a chill deeper than the rain. 

“Retreat.” Kusanagi didn't look any happier about giving the order than Yata felt about taking it, even though he knew they didn't have much of a choice. “We have to retreat. Everyone fall back towards the rendezvous point. We need to get out of here before the enemy reinforcements arrive.” He looked up abruptly at Yata. “Yata-chan. Go get Mikoto and Fushimi.” 

“Me?” Yata stared back blankly at him and Kusanagi gave him a weary but encouraging smile. 

“You're the fastest person here.” Kusanagi brushed some of the water from his eyes. “Go bring them back, all right?” 

_Saruhiko..._ Yata glanced towards the hill where he could just make out the hulking shadow of the communications tower. It was clear that whatever information they'd been given about this place was wrong and that meant there could be more soldiers waiting there as well. If that was the case, Saruhiko was in more danger than any of them. 

“Right.” Yata met Kusanagi's gaze steadily, just managing a shaky salute. “I'll definitely bring Mikoto-san and Saruhiko back!” 

Without waiting for further orders Yata turned and dashed towards the hill. 

Moving on his own it was easy to run through the camp without being attacked. Most of the enemy soldiers were already dealing with the rest of Homra and the few he did pass by were so shocked at nearly running into him that it was easy to take them out with a fist or the butt of his pistol. In moments he was out of the boundaries of the base and within sight of the hill, never slowing his pace even though he could feel his feet starting to slip a little on the wet grass. 

Something came barreling at him through the rain and Yata stumbled a little trying to avoid it, sliding down onto his knees in the mud. He dragged himself onto his hands and knees and looked over at what had almost hit him. 

An unconscious soldier, wearing the uniform of the Colorless Guard. The soldier was bleeding from what looked to be a broken nose and Yata felt a grim smile wind its way onto his face. Clearly, Mikoto and Saruhiko weren't going down without a fight. 

Yata dragged himself back to his feet, hands and uniform caked in mud as he began to run again. The rise of the hill was just above him and Yata slid again, just managing to catch himself as a bolt of lightning illuminated the scene before him. 

Mikoto was standing at the foot the rickety communications tower, surrounded by fallen soldiers. There were four of them still attacking him and he didn't even seem to be straining as he fought back, fists and feet moving in deliberate but devastating motions. 

Halfway up the tower itself Yata could just make out the wet miserable form of Saruhiko, huddled against the metal steps with one pistol drawn. He was holding one hand close to his body in a stance that suggested it might be injured in some way but his face was fixed on where Mikoto was fighting and it was clear that he was looking for an opening to shoot as he carefully slid down the tower step by step. 

Yata felt the tightness in his chest ease just a bit as he stepped forward. There were only four soldiers left, and neither Mikoto nor Saruhiko seemed to be badly injured at least. It wouldn't take long to finish off the last of the enemy soldiers and make a run for it, join everyone else. 

That was when another bolt of lightning lit the sky and Yata caught sight of the thin silhouette of a man standing far off to one side, half-hidden by a scattering of small bushes. He was clothed entirely in black and holding a single long rifle that was pointed directly above the rise of the hill. Yata felt his entire body go numb as his eyes followed the line of the shot. 

Saruhiko, reaching the foot of the tower at last. 

There was a roaring in Yata's ears, planes and fire, and his hand _burned_ as his legs began to move. 

His pistol was out of bullets and he'd never been that good a shot anyway, not as good as Saruhiko. And even with his speed, there was no time to reach the sniper and disrupt the shot before it could go off. There was no way to stop that gun from being fired and Yata did the only thing he knew how to do. 

He ran forward towards the communications tower. 

“Saruhiko!” 

He saw Saruhiko look up, eyes wide and confused, and then there was a sound that might have been thunder and might have been the firing of a gun. 

Pain blossomed over the left side of his face and everything abruptly went dark.


	5. a decade of hopeful, a terrible leap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter in honor of Sarumi Fest! Please enjoy the festive pain and suffering.

_IX. right hand (left eye)_

Misaki fell, and Fushimi felt his entire world stop.

It was like a gunshot to his own head, whiting out behind his eyes, slow motion everything and all there was in the universe was the slow arc of Misaki's fall and the blood spatter that came with it.

The plan – _his_ plan, his stupid, stupid plan – had clearly failed. Somehow their intelligence had been breached and the enemy had known they were coming, had likely been waiting for who knew how long for the attack to begin. A prime opportunity to wipe out one of the army's strongest units and Fushimi had helped it happen, had allowed them to walk right into it like lambs to the slaughter.

Everything had seemed to be going according to plan at first. The tower had been very lightly guarded – and shouldn't he have known then that something was wrong, shouldn't he have seen that they were being led straight into a trap – and Mikoto had been able to defeat the soldiers waiting without even breaking a sweat. Fushimi had scaled the tower easily, scuffling briefly with the single soldier waiting there. That was when he'd realized that the radio the Colorless forces had supposedly been using to intercept communication was nothing but an old piece of junk, useless. He'd glanced back down towards the base of the tower to inform Mikoto, and then he'd seen how thoroughly he'd been beaten.

Mikoto had been completely surrounded and Fushimi had been able to see more soldiers approaching in the distance. The rain had begun pouring down by then, making visibility poor and Fushimi had realized almost immediately that he needed to get back down to the ground before the tower became a lightning rod. He'd tried to descend when Mikoto had ordered him to stay put, voice calm but unyielding. Fushimi had taken a few steps down anyway but otherwise he'd done as ordered, trying his best to pick off what soldiers he could with his gun while using his non-dominant hand, the other having been injured trying to keep himself from falling off the tower when he'd taken down the single man guarding it. In between he'd done what he could with the radio, tying together wires and twisting pieces of cable until he was able to get a fuzzy signal tied into the Colorless army's radio frequency. He'd heard enough to know that they needed to get out of here, and quickly, and he'd finally begun to make his full descent.

That was when Misaki had come running through the rain and Fushimi had barely looked up when he heard a gunshot from somewhere in the distance.

And then Misaki's head had jerked back, blood spraying into the air as he fell down limply into the grass like a rag doll.

Fushimi couldn't breathe.

Nothing would work, not his hands or his mind. His lungs couldn't take in air, his heart couldn't beat. All he could do for what seemed like an eternity was stand there uselessly staring at Misaki's body crumpled on the ground.

His mind caught up a moment later, a million scenarios already running through his head as his feet moved towards where Misaki had fallen. A bullet through the head could kill within seconds. Straight through the temple maybe, cutting through bone and brain. A spatter of gore left behind in the grass. Nothing Fushimi hadn't seen before, hadn't been the cause of before, and clinically his mind knew exactly what he might see once he got close to where Misaki's body lay still on the ground. 

His racing heartbeat wouldn't slow even as he finally got close enough to see the damage, hands shaking as he tried to get a look at where Misaki had been hit. He could tell the wound hadn't been instantly fatal, at least, and might not be fatal at all but they couldn't stay here. The majority of the blood was concentrated around the left side of his face but it was impossible to see what the injury had been, a graze or something worse. Fushimi was already thinking again, about a bullet that could have continued on and out the back of the head or one that arched upward instead, to slice through soft brain tissue and leave a fissure wound behind. His mind unable to stop thinking, too much knowledge for him to relax at all, but Misaki was still breathing.

Misaki was still breathing, and Fushimi reached for his second pistol.

His wrist screamed in pain and he ignored it, ignored everything except the black-clothed spot in the distance retreating from the battle field. That was the only direction the bullet could have come from and Fushimi barely even needed to take a moment to calculate his aim before he fired.

A perfect hit – far more perfect than the one the soldier had laid on Misaki, judging from the dark blot of blood that splattered into the air as the body fell. Fushimi didn't even bother to watch it hit the ground. His hand was shaking on the gun and he didn't care, didn't care how many soldiers were left, how many more might be approaching. There was no one else in the world now but the two of them together and the enemies outside, and Misaki was _still breathing._

He was aware of someone approaching from behind him and without even bothering to look first Fushimi whirled, his good hand still clasping tight to Misaki – _Misaki,_ not Misaki's _body,_ because he couldn't think that way, wouldn't think that way – and his finger trembled on the trigger of the gun.

Mikoto's hand descended heavy on his injured wrist, wrenching the gun from his hand and Fushimi looked up at him through the rain, his mind still whirling too fast to grasp onto a single thought. Misaki was still breathing. There was blood all over one side of his face, soaking into Fushimi's uniform, but he was still breathing.

“Mikoto-san...” Mikoto crouched down next to him for a moment, expression unreadable as he pressed a hand close to the wound on Misaki's face. Fushimi tried to say something, to take control of the situation somehow, but his mouth wouldn't work and he could only sit there staring uselessly at Mikoto.

Mikoto didn't even look at him, instead reaching over and taking Misaki from his hands. Fushimi struggled against the movement for only a moment – if he let go of Misaki now who knew what could happen, who knew when that breathing could stop, he had to _hold on_ and even as he thought it Fushimi hated every word of it, hated that sensation of _loss_ that permeated his blood. Mikoto's hands around Misaki were far gentler than they'd been with Fushimi that night a lifetime ago in the factory and Mikoto only nodded briefly in Fushimi's direction before setting off at a near-run. Fushimi stumbled to his feet, legs sliding uncharacteristically out from under him as he slipped on the wet grass, just barely managing to follow the hazy shadow of Mikoto moving through the rain in front of him.

By the time Fushimi reached the emergency rendezvous point Kusanagi and Mikoto were both already crouched on the ground looking down at Misaki, Kusanagi swearing quietly. As if from far off Fushimi could hear Kamamoto's frantic voice trying to contact someone over the radio, saying they needed a medical evacuation as soon as they could get one.

“What _happened?”_ Chitose's fist slammed against a tree. “Those bastards knew we were coming! How--”

“I don't know.” Kusanagi's voice sounded more tired than Fushimi had ever heard it, his hands covered in blood – _Misaki's_ blood, pressed against that gaping wound. “We can figure it out later. There's more important things to think about right now.” 

All of Homra had clustered around Misaki by now, worried, and Fushimi stood there apart from them all. He felt like he'd been separated from himself, somehow – as though his body was there in the rain but his mind was elsewhere, somewhere down a dark cellar where there was no Homra and no Misaki either, no one but himself.

No one but himself, so when he planned – when he _failed_ – it wouldn't matter at all.

Time seemed to move too fast again, too soon from when Fushimi had heard the emergency call being placed to the moment when bright lights shone through the rain coming towards them. Kamamoto stepped forward with one hand on his gun, face grimmer than Fushimi could ever remember seeing it. The lights came closer and Fushimi could see the silhouette of a truck heading towards them. Kamamoto relaxed visibly as he turned back to where everyone else was still hovering around Misaki.

“Kusanagi-san!”

Kusanagi looked up, relief clear on his face.

“That was quick.” He nodded to Mikoto. “Help me get him into the truck.”

Mikoto reached down and carefully lifted Misaki up again – and Misaki was still breathing, Fushimi could see it, Misaki was _still_ _breathing_ – carrying him to the waiting truck. Kusanagi spoke quickly with the driver and the two soldiers perched at the back of the truck who were already looking over Misaki's wound. When he finished Kusanagi turned around to face the rest of them again and Fushimi had the strangest feeling that Kusanagi was looking at _him_ as he spoke, face apologetic.

“There's only room for one more to go along. I'll radio you once we have news.” There was something in Kusanagi's voice that made Fushimi's fists clench despite the pain that radiated up and down his wrist at the movement.

Kusanagi pulled himself into the truck and then it was off into the darkness, lights fading to nothing. Fushimi stared blankly after it, still feeling utterly numb, mind sluggish and barely able to process what was happening.

He knew that everyone was looking at him though, the rest of Homra shooting him small pitying glances that stung against his skin like open-handed slaps, and Fushimi couldn't meet any of their eyes.

Where was Misaki? Something felt wrong in his head, simmering under his skin, and his hand twitched again. Misaki would be able to tell him what was happening. Where was he now?

Breathing, still. He'd still been breathing. Fushimi didn't know why that was important and his stomach dropped.

“What do we do now, Mikoto-san?” The words hung in the air so heavy Fushimi thought he could see them there, like a block of ice in the middle of the rain. He was vaguely aware that he was frozen to the bone, soaked through entirely. Maybe that was why he was shaking.

“March.” Mikoto was already moving, as though the rain and the cold hadn't affected him at all. The rest of Homra seemed to understand immediately, Kamamoto giving out orders to start gathering up the remaining supplies they'd left behind, for everyone to see to their wounds and be ready to move. They wouldn't be waiting for the trucks to come retrieve them. If they started now they would reach Shizume by nightfall.

Everyone moved, except Fushimi. No one seemed to expect him to, maneuvering around him and looking past him and through him as though he was a piece of furniture. Fushimi bit his lip and felt blood dripping down.

Kamamoto nudged his arm as they began to walk and Fushimi flinched back away from him, his own breathing sounding harsh in his ears. Kamamoto was saying something – maybe comfort, maybe pity, maybe blame, maybe a mix of the three – but Fushimi couldn't hear him. He was still disconnected from his body and all the sound around him felt like it was coming from the other side of a fishbowl. He knew his legs were moving because the scenery changed as he went past it but he wasn't conscious of the walking at all.

His wrist hurt though, he could feel that, a burning pain that radiated up and down his whole arm. Fushimi thought that maybe he should be doing something about that but it seemed like too much effort, too much bother for something as useless as his own wounds.

He didn't know now, if Misaki was still breathing. Anything could happen, while the two of them were apart.

He stumbled slightly in the grass and suddenly there were rough hands grabbing at his shoulders. Fushimi looked up blankly through wet bangs at the face of Suoh Mikoto. 

“Mikoto-san?” His own voice didn't sound right in his ears, shaken and torn, and Fushimi didn't know why. Mikoto stared at him with an unreadable expression for a long moment before finally giving a heavy sigh.

“Come on.” Suddenly Fushimi was being lifted into the air, his body draped roughly against Mikoto's shoulder. The part of Fushimi that was still present thought that maybe he should be struggling against this – it was mortifying, being carried like a child while the rest of Homra marched around him, just another failure to add to the ledger – but he was still too numb to completely process the action. 

“Misaki isn't here.” He breathed the words into Mikoto's jacket, low and slightly slurred from the chill sliding down his throat.

“I know.” Being so close to Mikoto Fushimi could _feel_ the rumble of the words against his skin. The part of his mind that he knew would normally be screaming to escape had gone entirely dull and he felt hollow and empty instead. 

Mikoto didn't say anything else to him and Fushimi's eyes slid partially closed, not quite asleep, and he felt as though he was trapped in a dream where no matter how much he tried he couldn't wake up.

It wasn't until they came within sight of Shizume base that Fushimi felt everything rush in on him again, the world coming back into focus as he abruptly struggled out of Mikoto's grip. Mikoto let him go easily and he half-collapsed to the ground. His hand _ached_ and he could see the mottled pattern of blue and black bruises that stained his skin. Fushimi ignored the sight as he got to his feet, eyes fixed on the outer gates of the camp. The rain had stopped hours ago but he still felt cold.

Misaki.

_Misaki._

“King!” Totsuka's voice cut through his thoughts, the person in question already running through the gates towards them.

“Totsuka-san!” Kamamoto waved to him. Totsuka's face was grimmer than Fushimi had ever seen it and he felt a shudder run through his body again.

“They got here a few hours ago.” Totsuka didn't need to say who he was talking about. “Kusanagi-san wanted me to come wait for the rest of you guys.” He glanced over at Fushimi and the spark of pity in his eyes made Fushimi's blood burn. “Yata was in surgery when I left. He's fighting.”

“Go back to the barracks.” Mikoto gestured to the rest of Homra, not even turning around as he started to walk towards the hospital.

“But--” There was a mild rumble of worried protest and Totsuka gave them all a strained smile.

“Everyone needs a rest after that walk, right?” He waved a hand. “And we can't bring too many people to visit at once. We'll keep you all posted.”

“Right.” Kamamoto stepped forward, taking charge. “Everyone follow me.”

“Come on, Fushimi.” Totsuka looked over at Fushimi, reaching for his hand. Fushimi immediately pulled back and Totsuka gave him another tired look before gesturing for him to follow. The rest of Homra glanced at him as they walked away and Fushimi felt his hands curl into fists.

There was still a light haze hovering over camp and Fushimi's body felt strangely stiff as he followed Totsuka across the grounds. The hospital loomed in the distance, a great gray shape half-obscured by fog, and he swallowed hard.

Kusanagi was waiting just inside, talking quietly with Mikoto. Misaki's blood-stained uniform was clenched in his hands and Fushimi stopped dead, all the air abruptly disappearing from the room. Kusanagi immediately looked up at him, eyes tired and expression strained as he tried to sound reassuring.

“He's alive.”

Fushimi accepted the words with a silent nod, mind churning with all the possibilities still hovering in the space between those words -- 'alive' was breathing, 'alive' was heartbeat, but there was more beyond that and he knew it. He couldn't start to hope, not yet, not when there was so much that he'd failed already and he wouldn't bother to predict ahead if it was only going to allow him to see the glass shatter as it fell.

“Can we see him?” Totsuka placed a hand on his shoulder and Fushimi couldn't seem to move to push him away no matter how much he wanted to. Their concern for him suddenly felt stifling, like iron shackles dragging him down in the middle of a river. He didn't need it, didn't need those soft hands and worried eyes, didn't need to be treated like he was something that would break if they let him go. 

The memory of Mikoto's hands carrying him through the rain stung suddenly and the weakness made him want to throw up.

“I just came from his room.” Kusanagi nodded, still looking at Fushimi as he spoke. “He's sedated right now. It'll probably be a couple days before he wakes up.” Kusanagi paused for a moment, as if considering how he wanted to say the next words. “They couldn't save the eye.”

And there it was. Fushimi thought the words should have scalded him somehow, should have stung with the scar of what his failure had cost, but he only inclined his head in acceptance of it instead, still numb to his core. Kusanagi gave him another pensive look as he gestured for them all to follow him down the hall.

Shortly afterward Fushimi stood in the doorway to Misaki's room, Totsuka, Kusanagi and Mikoto still at the other end of the hallway talking quietly with one of the doctors. They'd prodded him forward gently and then moved away to give him space and Fushimi wished he could cut out the part of himself that felt grateful for it.

Misaki looked small and peaceful in the bed, his tanned skin paler than normal and his breathing shallow but steady. He was asleep, on who knew how many drugs and painkillers, medicine in the bloodstream to dull the mind and numb the pain. There was a bandage obscuring the left half of his face and Fushimi found his hands reaching out to touch it.

“ _They couldn't save the eye.”_ Kusanagi's words again, the memory of countless hours of surgery behind them and distantly Fushimi knew that Misaki had been lucky. His fingers curled slightly underneath the bandages, trying to touch Misaki's skin there, to see the scar, and Fushimi was suddenly aware of every ache in his own body, the way his wrist throbbed with every movement. 

Misaki breathed, slow and even, and without even being fully conscious of the movement Fushimi found himself leaning downwards, close enough to feel that breath on his skin. His lips closed gently over Misaki's, once, lightly, and then Fushimi pulled away as if the touch was a bonfire and he'd just been burned. An indulgence, maybe, and it wouldn't happen again, couldn't happen again, but Misaki was still breathing.

Fushimi could feel his shoulders shaking slightly but he didn't speak and he didn't cry. That would be pointless and Fushimi wouldn't do pointless things, not anymore. He simply stood there, watching the artificial light settle in Misaki's hair, breathing in the scent of anesthetic and blood. 

Misaki was still breathing, and the words had lost all illusion of comfort.

–

“Saruhiko!” Misaki's smile was shaky and crooked as Fushimi appeared in the doorway. It had been less than a week since his injury and he still looked tired and weak, barely able to sit up on his own. Fushimi couldn't look at his face.

“The doctors said I might be able to get out of bed soon,” Misaki told him, oblivious to Fushimi's silence. “But I probably won't be able to attend training for a while. And...” The forced cheer on his face dimmed just a bit, just enough of a shadow that to Fushimi it seemed to grow and spread, covering the room. “I guess my shooting's gonna be _really_ bad now, huh?”

“You're an idiot.” Fushimi felt the words come out of his mouth without even being conscious of the desire to speak. Misaki's head turned sharply to look at him, a flash of hurt running through his eyes – _no,_ eye, _just the one_ and it didn't sting at all, didn't change anything that hadn't already changed the first day they'd stepped foot in the Red Division's barracks – and Fushimi stared flatly back at him. “What were you even thinking, Misaki? Did you think you could outrun a bullet?”

“Well...I thought...” Misaki fidgeted slightly, looking down at his hand, and Fushimi felt suddenly light-headed without really knowing why. Something inside him was beginning to crack, painfully, and he knew he should leave it there, forget about it, focus on Misaki and on the way his eye was open, the way he still breathed and moved and _lived,_ despite everything. 

But Fushimi spoke anyway.

“Tch. Let me guess, you were trying to _save_ Mikoto-san?” It wasn't like he hadn't guessed it and Fushimi put all the scorn he could into those words.

“Wh-what the hell are you talking about?” Misaki looked up at him, that open honest face the same as always and yet so unfamiliar at the same time. “I was trying to save _you,_ you jerk!”

For the second time, the world stopped.

“I saw that guy aiming at you and I had to do something,” Misaki continued, oblivious, always oblivious, to everything but his own world that had once been small enough only for them. “I didn't have any bullets left and I couldn't get to that guy before he fired so I just...ran.” He smiled, one hand touching lightly against the tattoo on his chest. “I mean, I had to save my comrade. Right?”

_Comrade._ The word seemed to ring in Fushimi's ears, hollow, everything on fire and suddenly the room was too small, too close, and without another word Fushimi turned and ran.

“Saruhiko!” He heard Misaki call after him but Fushimi couldn't stop, hands held close to his chest as he rushed down the hall and out the building. There were too many people there outside, still too stifling, and instead he ducked into the space between buildings and collapsed against the hospital's side wall. His chest felt hot and impulsively he tugged at his uniform, wrenching down the collar so that he could see the tattoo carved there on his skin.

_Tear it off._ His hands scrabbled wildly at the tattoo, nails digging into flesh, tearing at his skin as if he could rip off that mark, that stupid useless mark that had almost lost him Misaki.

It choked in his lungs, words, ideas, the world spinning as Fushimi tore at the mark that wouldn't be removed. Somewhere distantly he thought he heard rising laughter and then he realized the sound was coming from him, half a laugh and half the keen of a wounded animal and he _knew._

He was going to leave Homra.

He had to. He'd let it go too long already, let himself be convinced that this way was best only because Misaki was here. But Misaki almost hadn't been and there was darkness, a deep deep darkness – an endless tunnel on the left side of Misaki's face and Fushimi didn't know the way out, not this time. 

_'I was trying to save_ you.' _'I mean, I had to save my comrade, right?'_ Was it even the same, now? When had that 'you' been replaced by 'comrade,' when had Fushimi's own hands not been enough for Misaki to hold? It had only been failure after failure ever since he'd come to this place and see where it had led him now.

He wasn't like Misaki, who believed that the way to hold on to everything in this world was to simply never let go. Hadn't he known it from the start, that the only way to survive was to let everything fall from his hands when its usefulness was past. Hadn't he always been better when he was the only one reaching in the dark alone, without any phantoms to lead him on.

Fushimi rose on shaky legs and began to walk across camp towards the Blue Division as blood seeped into his collar.

_X. shadow_

There was darkness on one side of his face.

It was strange, waking up to it, and at first Yata wasn't sure what was going on. His body felt numbed by painkillers as he opened his eyes, his head feeling too heavy to lift, and he stared blankly up at the sterile white ceiling, trying to figure out when his eyes had moved to the center of his face.

His vision was blurry and he turned his head, slow, like he was moving through water. There was someone next to him though and Yata stared at the fuzzy figure standing there, trying to get his vision to focus. 

_Saruhiko._

Yata wasn't sure why but there was a sudden undeniable feeling of _relief_ that flooded through him and he thought maybe he could feel a light touch on his hand as drowsiness overtook him again and Yata sank back into darkness.

It wasn't until he woke up the second time that he realized there was something wrong on the left side of his face. Kusanagi was the one next to his bedside this time, face grave. He smiled, though, when he saw that Yata was awake.

“Kusanagi-san...” Yata's tongue felt thick in his mouth and there was still a dull pain in his head. He wondered where Saruhiko was.

“Well. Good morning, Yata-chan.” Kusanagi pressed a hand against his forehead. “How are you feeling?”

“Weird,” Yata murmured, mind still sluggish. “Kusanagi-san, what happened? Is Saruhiko–”

“He's fine.” There was something strange in Kusanagi's smile but Yata didn't feel like he could even begin to place it, not with the persistent shadow still hovering on one side of his face.

“And...what about me?” Yata felt his heart start to pound heavily, even as the rest of him continued to feel drowsy and slow. Was something wrong? He was pretty sure he still had all his limbs – they felt too heavy to _not_ be there – and once the drugs wore off he'd probably be able to move them all properly too. Maybe it had been something else? The shadow on his left side tugged at his consciousness again, the feeling that there should be something there that was missing, but he couldn't quite place it.

“Ah, well...” Kusanagi sighed and there was a definite heaviness in his expression. “You should probably rest up, Yata-chan.”

“No. I wanna know.” Yata wished he could sit up, he felt too much like an invalid lying there. He didn't need Kusanagi treating him like a kid now, not after all this time. “Kusanagi-san...my face feels weird.”

“Yeah, I thought it would.” Kusanagi shook his head. “There's not much point in hidin' it from you, is there?” He looked Yata full in the face. “What do you remember?”

“Just...the mission failed, right?” It was hard to recall exactly _how,_ but he definitely remembered that. And then he'd gone after Mikoto and Saruhiko, and...and there had been pain, searing through his head, but he couldn't really recall anything else. He turned his head to look at the walls around him. “This is Shizume base's hospital.”

“We got you here just in time.” There was a definite seriousness to Kusanagi's tone and Yata wondered again how severe the damage had been. Had he almost died? He didn't really recall dreaming anything though, weren't you supposed to see your lost loved ones when you had a near-death experience? Yata couldn't remember seeing anything at all when he'd been sleeping, and his palm suddenly itched. “You gave us a pretty big scare, Yata-chan.”

“Sorry...” Yata supposed it was a stupid thing to apologize for and Kusanagi just gave him a wan smile in return. “Kusanagi-san...is—is something wrong with my eyes? Everything looks kinda...weird...”

“Yeah.” Kusanagi placed a hand over his. “It was a bullet wound. The doctors managed to get the worst of it stitched up but the blood loss was pretty severe.” He paused and Yata knew he was trying to figure out how to deliver bad news.

“Kusanagi-san?” There was a shake in his voice that he hadn't intended at all and Yata bit his lip. 

“Sorry, Yata-chan.” Kusanagi's voice was gentle and serious. “There was nothing they could do for that left eye of yours.”

“My...eye?” He supposed it should've been obvious, with the shadow, but Yata's mind didn't seem to want to grasp the words anyway.

Kusanagi didn't answer, just met his eyes steadily – met his _eye_ steadily and Yata still couldn't quite bring himself to believe it, couldn't quite reconcile the darkness hovering to his left with the words Kusanagi had spoken.

“Get some rest, all right?” Kusanagi pressed a hand over his again and Yata could only manage a nod, entire body gone numb and cold.

There was darkness on his left side, and Yata didn't know how he was supposed to see through it.

–

Saruhiko hadn't been to see him for two days now and Yata was beginning to feel worried.

It was strange, getting used to seeing through only one eye. Everything looked wrong – flatter, somehow, and it was hard to gauge the distance between himself and Saruhiko with his eyes. He'd made a weak joke about how it wasn't going to make the distances he marched any shorter and Saruhiko had responded with only a flat blank stare.

“Yata!” Yata looked up as Totsuka peered into the room. “Are you awake?”

“Totsuka-san!” Yata smiled shakily at him. “I feel like I haven't done anything _but_ sleep for weeks. Can I leave the hospital yet?”

“I'm sure you'll be allowed out soon,” Totsuka said cheerily. There seemed to be something strangely desperate about his smile though and it put Yata on edge.

“Um, Totsuka-san...have you seen Saruhiko at all?” Yata said, fidgeting. He didn't understand why Saruhiko hadn't been back to visit him – he'd been strange, too, that last time after Yata had told him about why he'd run into the path of the bullet. Yata had been worried that maybe he'd said something wrong, maybe he'd upset Saruhiko somehow, but he'd figured that Saruhiko would be back and they could talk about it. He hadn't been back since though, and it made Yata feel worried.

“Ah. That's...what I came to talk to you about, actually.” Totsuka's gaze lowered slightly and Yata felt a sudden spike of panic.

“Totsuka-san, Saruhiko didn't – he's okay, right?” It felt hard to swallow around the lump forming in his throat and Totsuka waved a hand quickly.

“No, no, Fushimi's fine!” There was still a definite heaviness in Totsuka's smile regardless of his words. “Fushimi...he put in for a division transfer this morning, it seems.”

“What?” It felt like the words should have made sense but Yata couldn't seem to grasp the meaning.

“King told me about it earlier. Fushimi's...decided to leave Homra.”

“But—why? Why the hell would he...” Yata shook his head, trying to sit up, and Totsuka gently pushed him back down.

“I don't know. I'm sure Fushimi has his reasons.” Totsuka's hand seemed to tremble on Yata's shoulder and it took Yata a moment to realize that no, that wasn't it, Totsuka's hand was steady and it was Yata who was shaking.

“The fuck he has his reasons! How could he—after everything we've been through and–” Yata felt like his head was spinning and nothing seemed to make sense. He and Saruhiko were always supposed to be together, right? They'd sworn that all those years ago and yet...he was leaving. Saruhiko was going to leave him, _now,_ when Yata needed him more than ever.

“He'll still be in camp.” There was a definite note of forced cheer in Totsuka's voice. “He's joining the Blue Division.”

“But why the hell would he do that?” It didn't feel like a comfort at all, only made it worse, the idea that Saruhiko would still be _here_ but not with Yata at all, not by his side where Yata could watch him and hold onto him. “Totsuka-san...we're not letting him go, right? I mean, he's a member of Homra and–”

“King already approved it.” Totsuka shook his head. “Well, I don't think he was happy at all. That person came himself to deliver the papers and King didn't seem to like that much. But Yata...you know we can't make someone stay if they don't want to, right?”

“But...” Yata didn't know what else to say. None of it seemed to make any sense at all, no matter how hard he tried to wrap his mind around it.

“Yata.” Totsuka's voice was gentle as always, gaze straightforward. “Don't you think the one you should be talking to about this is Fushimi? If the two of you talk I'm sure you'll be able to come to an understanding somehow.”

“What the hell is there to understand?” Yata muttered. “That guy...what the fuck is Saruhiko thinking? He can't—I mean, he and I are...”

“Talk to Fushimi.” Totsuka patted his hand again as he stood. “I'm sure it'll all work out in the end. For now, though, just get some rest, okay?”

“Y...yeah.” Yata sank back down into his blankets. “Right. Thanks, Totsuka-san. For letting me know.”

“I'll bring Anna-chan by later, all right?” Totsuka said as he made his way to the door. “She's been worried about you, you know.”

“Mmm.” Yata nodded, eye half-closed, and Totsuka gave him another brief worried smile before disappearing out the door.

Yata waited a few minutes to be sure Totsuka was gone and then he carefully dragged himself out of bed. 

He stumbled slightly as his feet hit the cold floor, leaning heavily on the bed as a wave of dizziness passed through him. He'd barely been out of bed in days and he felt as weak as a child, only just able to keep his feet. Even so he grit his teeth and forced himself away from the bed towards the door. There was no way he could sleep now, not after hearing all that.

He had to find Saruhiko, had to figure out what the hell was going on. It had to be a misunderstanding – maybe Saruhiko had been forced somehow, told he had to leave Homra for who knew what reason. There was no way he would have left Homra on his own, right?

No way he would have left _Yata,_ not after everything, and Yata's hand itched.

It was strange, walking through the cold sterile hallways of the hospital, one hand kept close against the wall for support. Yata felt even more aware than he'd been before about that dark shadow on his left side, about the mess of scarred flesh that was hidden by the bandage over where his left eye had been.

“Oh? Finally done sleeping, _Misaki?”_

The voice made him whirl, relief rushing through him and Yata felt an almost desperate smile wind its way onto his face. 

“Saruhiko! Where the hell have you been?” Surely Totsuka had been wrong, had misunderstood. Saruhiko wouldn't leave him so easily, without saying a word, not after everything they'd been through. “I was starting to get really worried you know--”

His mind finally seemed to fully register the figure standing in front of him and Yata trailed off, words going dry in his throat.

It was definitely Saruhiko in front of him, with his thin frame and thick glasses and two pistols holstered at his waist. He was still wearing his black military uniform but the band around his upper arm was an unmistakeable _blue._

His hair was parted oddly too, Yata realized, off to one side in a way that made his entire face seem slightly askew. And then there was the smile.

It wasn't Saruhiko's smile.

Yata knew Saruhiko's smile, knew it like the marks on his palm and the pulse of his heart. Saruhiko's smile was a thing that was sometimes bold and confident, when he talked about plans they'd made and things they were going to do, places they would go. And sometimes it was something shy and light, resting on his face like a leaf in the wind, able to be blown away by any sudden movement. The smile on Saruhiko's face now was a twisted mangled thing that wound its way across his face like chicken-wire, all sharp edges and wicked lines.

“H-hey, Saruhiko...” He couldn't believe it. He _wouldn't_ believe it and Yata's palm stung so badly he felt his eye begin to water. “You're kidding, right? You—you didn't really leave Homra, right?”

_You didn't really leave me, right?_

“Something wrong, _Misaki?”_ The tone was all twisted too, that slight lilt Yata had been so used to nothing but a torn echo of itself, shrapnel in the air. “Did you think I was going to wait forever doing nothing while you were asleep?”

“What the hell do you think you're _doing_?” Yata found his hands closing over Saruhiko's arms without even meaning to, fingers twisting in the fabric of his uniform. “This—this is a joke, right? Saruhiko...”

“How pathetic.” Saruhiko's lip curled, the amusement on his face dark and cold, nothing like the Saruhiko Yata knew at all. It was like he was staring at some stranger wearing Saruhiko's face, as though the darkness still hovering on his left side had swallowed up his Saruhiko whole and left only this shattered image in its wake, and Yata didn't understand how this had happened, why. “Are you really that surprised, or have you just been half blind all this time?”

The words stung more than they would have coming from any other mouth but Saruhiko's and Yata felt something twist in the pit of his stomach. He felt like his legs were shaking and he told himself that it was only the painkillers still in his system. Maybe that was all this was, a hallucination, a dream brought on by fever and pain. Any minute now he would wake up and Saruhiko would still be there by his bedside, looking down at him with that fleeting gentle smile that he only ever showed to Yata.

“I don't understand.” Yata's mouth felt dry. “How—what the _hell,_ Saruhiko? You can't...you can't just...” Yata shook his head. “Did you forget how Mikoto-san _saved_ us? How the hell can you just leave that easily?”

“Mikoto-san?” Saruhiko scoffed quietly. “Don't be an idiot, Misaki. Look where your foolish devotion to that useless person has gotten you. It's a wonder we aren't all missing a few limbs by now.” He shook off Yata's grip easily and took a slow step forward, face filling up the whole of Yata's vision and Yata could feel a sudden rush of anger shoot through him. “I've just had enough of playing silly war games, that's all.”

“You bastard!” Yata's eye stung and he didn't know if it was pain or tears as he roughly grabbed for Saruhiko's coat and pulled him closer. He could see Saruhiko's eyes shining almost fever bright even through the haze that clouded half of Yata's vision. “Did you forget the promise we made? We're supposed to be _together_! How the hell can you break that _now?”_

“You're such a child, Misaki,” Saruhiko murmured, meeting his eyes steadily as one hand rose up slowly, pressing against the bandage on Yata's face. “I told you, I'm tired of these games. There's a war going on out there and I don't intend to spend my time playing family with a bunch of losers. I've had enough. If the Red Captain can't live up to my expectations, perhaps the Blue Captain will be more...amenable.”

His face was close then, so close, and Yata felt himself shaking. He could remember it hazily in the back of his mind, a cold evening and crouching together beside a dumpster, a fast beating heart and Saruhiko's breath on his face. 

A battle line between them, again, and this time Yata had no desire at all to cross it as he roughly pushed Saruhiko away.

“How can you even _say_ shit like that?” Yata's fists clenched and he could feel them again, those lines on his palm that wouldn't go away, the scar of what he couldn't hold onto. “This is the family we wanted right? The place where the two of us belong--”

“Belong?” Saruhiko laughed, high and mocking. “You're always so amusing, Misaki. 'We?' Don't lump me in with a weakling like you, so desperate to replace what you lost, as if it makes your failure to hold on any better.” The words cut deeper than any blade could and Yata found himself stumbling backwards, sagging against the far wall. Saruhiko's eyes narrowed and he pulled a knife from his sleeve, flipping it in his hands as he took a step closer. “I'm not like you, Misaki. I haven't been from the start. Letting yourself be branded won't erase those scars, no matter how much you try to pretend otherwise.”

He reached up and pulled at his uniform. Yata could only stare blankly as Saruhiko bared the skin at his collar, revealing the Homra mark in the same familiar place. There were deep red scratches all around it, as if a wild animal had torn at the skin until it bled.

“We really weren't ever the same, Misaki,” Saruhiko continued, still tossing the knife idly up and down, and Yata couldn't breathe. “This mark...to me, it was always a _scar.”_

The world seemed to slow down, Yata's mind not quite able to process what was happening as Saruhiko  threw the knife one last time, catching it easily by the hilt and pressing the edge of the blade up against his skin.

“Saruhiko..” Yata's voice sounded like nothing more than a thin shell of itself as he spoke, choked and hoarse. “Saruhiko, don't!”

Saruhiko cocked his head slightly, the smile twisting along with the movement, and then with a barking laugh he drove the knife straight into his body, right through the center of Homra's mark.

The blood began to flow immediately, thick red lines, and Saruhiko's breath barely wavered as he yanked the knife back out. His own blood stained the blade red and Yata could only stare, everything gone blank in his mind, gaze fixed on the dark stain growing over the front of Saruhiko's jacket. The blood continued dripping steadily onto the floor, small red drops trickling down the knife that hung limply in Saruhiko's hand.

“S...Saruhiko...” Yata's eyes couldn't move from the blood, _Saruhiko's_ blood. He almost wanted to turn his head, let this Saruhiko be swallowed by the darkness on his left side, but his body refused to move.

“I'll see you around, Misaki.” Saruhiko threw the knife towards him and Yata fell back as if burned. His whole body seemed to be shaking, tremors running underneath his skin and it only seemed to make whatever fire was coursing through Saruhiko's veins burn even hotter. Saruhiko's face was somehow paler and sunken, skeletal almost, his breathing forced out in halting shakes of laughter. Yata could only stare at him, unable to move, the bloody knife like a wall between them that he couldn't figure out how to climb, and Yata didn't know what to say as Saruhiko finally turned and began to make his way back down the hall. His footsteps were uneven.

“Saruhiko!” Yata managed to force the words from his lungs, hot and burning like a bonfire, a bullet from a gun. “I'm not going to forgive you for this, you asshole! If you leave now don't expect me to come after you once you've come to your senses!”

“That's just fine by me, Misaki.” Saruhiko laughed, still bleeding as he walked away. “This is where our paths separate. If you decide to chase after me, you know where I'll be.”

Then he was gone and Yata felt his legs finally give out as he slid down onto his hands and knees. He was shaking too hard to even move, breath coming in short gasps, and all he could see in front of him were the small drops of Saruhiko's blood on the floor tiles, stark red against white, and all black on his left side.

Yata's fists clenched, nails digging into his palms, whole body still shaking so hard he thought he might break apart if he tried to move.

_Saruhiko..._ The name felt like a curse now and Yata gave a wordless cry of frustration as he pounded his fists against the hard floor, darkness on one side of his face and the wet sting of tears on the other. 

_I'll never forgive you. I'll never forgive you for this._

_Traitor._


	6. can't see the trees if you hide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no update? ^^;; Sorry for the short chapter, like Gora I wanted to end on just the right spot :P

_XI. scab_

Fushimi stood outside the door to the Blue Division's war room, scratching idly at the mark on his chest.

The stab wound had scarred over but not enough to obscure Homra's symbol completely, an angry blur of color marring the pale skin of his chest, the flame tattoo bisected neatly in half by a thick dark line that was more often than not red and inflamed from the times Fushimi had scratched at the wound and opened it fresh. Munakata had caught him worrying at it a few times and gave him a disapproving look whenever the scab began to bleed but never did more than tell him to keep the wound clean in order to stave off infection. 

Munakata was very careful with that sort of thing, infected wounds and cleanliness. Fushimi wasn't sure what exactly he had expected when he'd transferred from the Red Division to the Blue – the same thing in different colors perhaps, and alone this time instead of with someone by his side. He'd quickly found himself proved wrong on that score, small differences giving way to large the longer he stayed. The Blue Division was scrubbed clean in a way the Red was not and all their uniforms were crisp and clean, as well-maintained as the battle formations the rank and file made during training exercises.

Fushimi had assumed that he would be part of those exercises, forced into those regimented clean lines, but Munakata had apparently had different plans for him from the start. Rather than including him in with the rest of the troops Munakata had instead brought him to be housed in the barracks with the Blue Division's special forces Scepter 4, even though technically Fushimi was not a member of that unit. The soldiers of Scepter 4 were housed in a proper dorm, unlike Homra's single wide-domed building and its mess of beds pressed together. Even here, however, the members were still stationed two to a room – everyone except Fushimi, owing to his 'extenuating circumstances,' as Munakata had put it. Instead Fushimi was given a room to himself at the very end of the building.

The room had clearly still been intended for two people, with two sets of a drawers and bunk bed, but Munakata had made it clear that he had no intentions of giving Fushimi an unasked-for roommate. It was also the only room in the building with a skylight window on the ceiling, one that could be opened or closed with the proper key. It had been locked when Fushimi had first entered the room and he'd assumed that was how it would stay, until Munakata had shown up some hours later and dropped the key into Fushimi's palm with an enigmatic smile. Fushimi had eyed him suspiciously but Munakata had made no mention at all of his reasons for giving Fushimi the room and Fushimi had simply moved himself to the top bunk and opened the skylight without allowing himself to think about the reasons why. 

For the last six months Fushimi had been living in that room, housed with the rest of Scepter 4 but on his own more often than not. He wasn't even certain what his role in the Blue Division _was,_ officially – he wasn't a member of Scepter 4 despite living in their dorms but he didn't belong to any of the lower units either, and Munakata had never made so much as a suggestion that Fushimi join in on any of the training exercises or even guard duty along the walls. Instead Fushimi had found himself constantly assigned to solo missions, summoned into Munakata's office without warning and handed a file full of papers detailing the mission he was to complete. 

Each time before Fushimi left Munakata would tell him that he was welcome to request backup, should he need it, and each time Fushimi would give him the same refusal in reply.

“ _I alone will be enough.”_

They were usually easy missions, anyway – hunting down information, cracking codes, reconnaissance and interception. Even when he needed to fight it didn't matter, even when he returned with blood all over his uniform or a hitch in his steps it didn't matter. All that mattered was that he completed the mission.

(And all missions were better completed by himself, no need to look over his shoulder anymore for that presence he knew so well, no need to trust his back to anyone ever again. He wasn't a child, clinging to someone else for comfort. Fushimi didn't need anything but himself, now.)

Munakata offered him whatever else he asked for, of course. Weapons and supplies, ammo, everything he needed was at his fingertips. Along with his two pistols Fushimi had fashioned himself a knife harness simple enough to hide beneath his uniform. The extra weapons were a necessity, now that he was alone.

Or maybe he'd always been alone, all this time, and only after everything had he finally realized it.

The Blue Division was also home to a handful of vehicles and Munakata had allowed him use of those as well, following a brief period of driving instruction. He was normally given a cash stipend to use for mission purposes, lodging and food, but Fushimi rarely bothered with that and spent most of his nights asleep on the hard open bed of one of the Blue Division's trucks, staring up at the stars and burying his nails into the scarred mess at his collarbone. Sometimes he found himself thinking that if he scratched deep enough maybe he could tear off the remnants of that flame symbol, leave it behind for good.

He'd only just returned from one of those missions an hour ago, had barely dragged his exhausted body into bed before one of the soldiers from Scepter 4 had rapped on his door and informed him that he was wanted in the war room. Reluctantly Fushimi had pulled himself back to his feet and made his way to Scepter 4's main building and that familiar thick oaken door, waiting to be summoned inside.

Another mission so soon was surprising but not entirely rare. There never seemed to be an end to them and working under Munakata Fushimi had begun to realize things, things that Homra wasn't even peripherally aware of – or the rank and file weren't, at least, and Fushimi wondered sometimes exactly how much Suoh Mikoto knew and never said. The first and most of important of those things, the one he had realized shortly after his transfer was complete, was that they were in fact losing this war.

It wasn't that much of a surprise, all told. Fushimi was only annoyed he hadn't figured it out sooner, lulled into complacency by all of Misaki's wild idiotic tales of heroism.

“You may come in now, Fushimi-kun.” The sound of Munakata's voice made him straighten slightly and Fushimi couldn't help a wince as one of the wounds he'd received on the last mission made itself known. He swallowed down the pain and pushed the door open, making his way inside.

Munakata was waiting for him, not seated behind his desk as usual but standing beside the map of the continent that was laid out against the wall. Lieutenant Awashima was there as well, standing at his side with her usual straight-backed posture, her face set and serious. She was one of Munakata eccentricities too – there were only a handful of women in the army and nearly all of them in the Blue Division, though Awashima was the only one in a combat position. She raised an eyebrow slightly as Fushimi stepped into the room, her eyes silent and searching, no doubt another one wondering what the Blue Division's Captain saw in him.

“You have another mission for me, sir?” Fushimi didn't bother to disguise his annoyance and he saw the Lieutenant's eyes narrow at his tone. Munakata didn't even so much as blink, smile growing wider if anything, and Fushimi clicked his tongue quietly. That was another thing about Munakata – he rarely if ever said a word about Fushimi's occasional lapses in discipline. It was like Suoh Mikoto and yet entirely different at the same time: Mikoto had always seemed as though he didn't even notice such things while Munakata noticed _everything_ , noticed and made note of it and there was always something in his expression that suggested even something as simple as a lack of respect was a thing he was measuring for some game only he knew the rules of.

“On the contrary, Fushimi-kun. I merely wished to speak with you a bit. I assume your last mission was completed successfully?”

“Yes. I’ll file the report later.” He'd been sent out to capture a pair of deserters-turned-enemy-informants. It had been a bit of a fight – his left leg was still throbbing a little, to be honest, and there was a wound in his side that hadn't quite stopped bleeding even after he'd made it back to his room. He'd wrapped it up just enough to keep the blood from soaking through his uniform, enough to keep Munakata from asking about it or anyone else from fussing over it as if the condition of his body mattered at all.

“Excellent. I expect nothing less.” Munakata turned to look at the map on the wall behind him. “Have you seen a map of the country before, Fushimi-kun?” 

Munakata's voice was polite and amused, like a teacher preparing to lecture a troublesome student, and  Fushimi shrugged in reply.

“A few times.” He'd been in this room before, after all, and the map was rather hard to miss. There had been a map in that house too, that Niki and Kisa used to roll out on the table and mark off smuggling routes while Fushimi sat in the corner unnoticed. “Were you practicing your coloring skills, Captain?” 

The map on the wall had been marked out in a variety of different colors, looking almost like something that idiot Doumyoji had gotten a hold of. Fushimi wouldn't have been surprised if Munakata had borrowed Doumyoji's markers, for that matter.

“We are stationed here.” Munakata pulled a black pointer out of nowhere and tapped it against a blue and red circle near the center of the map. “Just north of Shizume City. This site is focused around the Red and Blue Divisions, their special forces units of Homra and Scepter 4, respectively, as well as the trainee corps. The Golden General's main camp, however, is located here.” He moved the pointer northward. Fushimi followed the motion, doing the distance conversion in his head: at least a day's ride by train from Shizume base. Munakata turned to look at him again, eyes sparkling. “Would it intrigue you, Fushimi-kun, to know that we have not heard word directly from the General for well over a month now?”

“Sir!” Awashima's perfect posture finally failed, shock evident on her face. Munakata made a calming gesture in her direction, his eyes still intent on Fushimi’s face.

“Is that so?” Fushimi leaned against the table languidly. He wasn't particularly interested in the specifics of the army's hierarchy, much less the whereabouts of a person who to all accounts was a strict old man anyway. That wasn't why he'd come here, after all, and his chest itched. “Has anyone bothered sending a messenger to figure out where he's gone?”

“Currently it appears that the Silver General has taken temporary command of the United Colors.” Munakata continued as if he hadn't spoken. “He has been organizing the movements of the Gold Army's legions as well as his own. Apparently he's finally found a second in command to assist him.” There was something in Munakata's smile to suggest that he had thoughts about that second but he kept them to himself. “In the meantime, however, much of our territory seems to have fallen to our enemies.”

The pointer moved southward and Fushimi's eyes followed it, noted the familiar railway line that the route bisected and the town that had surely been swallowed up by enemy forces once again.

The image of stars scratched into a warehouse floor floated into his mind unbidden and Fushimi pushed the thought away with a slight curl of his lip.

“There are two main armies opposing us at this point. The Green Army defected from our own troops ten years ago, with Hisui Nagare's attempted assassination of Kokujouji Daikaku and the explosion at Mihashira base that followed. Since then his movements have been kept hidden in shadow. We have managed to discover intermittent information as to his whereabouts but we have yet to uncover anything concrete. Where the Green army's main base is hidden, the location of Hisui Nagare – if he survived the explosion on that day, of course, and I am certain he did – all of these remain in doubt. Far more of a threat currently is the secondary army, that marches under the blank flag.”

The townspeople had termed those legions 'Colorless,' and though Fushimi knew that the army had no official name for them that was what they were commonly referred to within the military as well.

“Their general has no name that we know of, no history that can be traced. That man leads his army wherever he wishes, often choosing his place to attack with no apparent sense of logic whatsoever.” Munakata touched the pointer against various places on the map. “These cities have all fallen to him. It is almost certain, however, that he is in league somehow with Hisui Nagare – it is simply that he is a wild card that even Hisui cannot entirely control, and thus in many ways a greater threat. Hisui Nagare will lie in wait for decades if he believes that it will suit his cause. The general of the blank flag army has no such compunctions.”

“With all due respect, Captain, I don't see what any of this has to do with me.” Fushimi wasn't particularly thrilled at having been dragged out of bed for a history lesson that he didn't need, and Munakata's smile widened even as Awashima's features narrowed in a sharp glare.

“Fushimi!”

“It is all right, Awashima-kun.” Munakata seemed more pleased by his response than anything, as if he had been waiting for the question all along. “I imagine you must be confused as to why I called you all the way here for a simple lesson in the way of the world. I must confess that I did indeed have an ulterior motive.” Munakata regarded him coolly for a moment, gaze searching in that way that made Fushimi tense unconsciously, as if waiting for the next shoe to drop. “I simply decided that it would be advantageous for you to have a full grasp of our current situation, as I intend to offer you the position of third in command of the Blue Division.”

Fushimi's whole body started in surprise, momentarily at an utter loss, and from the look on Awashima's face it was clear that she was as well. Only Munakata continued to look completely unruffled, waiting patiently for Fushimi's response and far too satisfied with his own dramatic reveal.

The calmness irritated him but Fushimi couldn't deny that part of him was intrigued as well. He'd learned very quickly that this man was nothing like Suoh Mikoto – all calm ocean where Mikoto was raging fires, slow and methodical where Mikoto was brash and violent. And there was something in Munakata's eyes when he looked at Fushimi, a latent challenge always lying just underneath the gaze that somehow pulled Fushimi to respond, to rise to it.

“Fine. I accept.” Fushimi scratched idly at the scar on his chest and Munakata smiled. “Can I go now?”

“Of course. I have kept you too long.” Munakata inclined his head and Fushimi turned to leave, mind still whirling with the import of what he'd just accepted. “Oh, Fushimi-kun? One more thing, if you will.”

“What?” Fushimi didn't bother to disguise his annoyance now. His body still felt sore and exhausted from the previous night's mission and he was more than ready for some well-deserved sleep.

“I require your presence at the western training grounds in four hours,” Munakata said. There was a glint in his eyes that immediately put Fushimi on edge. “For mixed training.”

“I thought you had better things for me to do than training exercises,” Fushimi muttered, still on alert.

“Indeed. However, I believe that it would be for the good of the camp if the Red and Blue Divisions were to have a...better measure of each other, shall we say. Therefore, Lieutenant Kusanagi and I have worked out an arrangement. Twice a week, all members of Scepter 4 are required to attend a mixed training session with the members of the Red Division's Homra.” Munakata smiled brilliantly. “And as you are now an official part of Scepter 4, Fushimi-kun, I expect you to attend as well.”

“Tch.” Fushimi grimaced, trying to ignore the way his chest suddenly itched and his hands tried to clench into fists. “Fine, fine. But I'm taking the rest of the day off.”

“Certainly. Please take some time to rest and recover before the training begins.”

There was the sense of being dismissed and Fushimi barely even inclined his head to Munakata as he turned and left the room, letting the door to close behind him. Out in the safety of the hall he finally allowed himself to reach up and scratch again at the scar by his collar.

Mixed training. With Homra.

With _Misaki._

It had been months since he'd seen Misaki, not since that day in the hospital. There had been flashes, here and there – the smallest glimpse of red hair as he crossed the grounds, the sound of that voice he knew better than his own floating to his ears carried by the wind from somewhere out of sight – but for the most part Fushimi had cut the thread cleanly. But the thought of seeing each other again, and on something like a battlefield...it made his blood burn with anticipation.

Misaki.

_Misaki._

It was a heartbeat, pounding hot on in his ears: Misaki, Misaki, Misaki.

It would be all right, wouldn't it, to meet each other as enemies. To remind Misaki of what he had been stupid enough to throw himself away for, to show him the folly of what he'd done. And to remind him of the hole that had been left behind, to keep his own image there in Misaki's mind, shattered and broken.

To teach Misaki to _let go._

( _But still, hold on to me.)_

Fushimi found himself chuckling quietly as he walked back towards the dorm and it wasn't until he felt the wetness of blood against his fingernails that he realized he'd reopened the scar on his chest again. Well, no matter. The smell of blood made him feel more awake, more alive, and Fushimi couldn't stop smiling.

He needed to get some rest. It wouldn't do not to be in his best condition for training.

–

Four hours later Fushimi dragged himself out of bed and towards the western training grounds. His whole body still ached, wounds he'd barely bothered to bandage suddenly shooting pain through him with every movement. There was a light drizzle falling and mud stained his boots. Even so he was smiling as he approached the group already gathered by the training grounds.

Awashima stood at the head of the group, Kusanagi beside her. The members of Homra had arranged themselves in a straight line along one side of the grounds with the members of Scepter 4 on the other, facing each other as Kusanagi and Awashima issued their orders. It seemed opponents were being chosen by counting off numbers and it only took Fushimi a moment to calculate where he needed to stand before he approached, shoving aside Fuse without so much as an apology. Fuse glared at him in response, probably wondering what he was even doing there in the first place – Fushimi doubted that Munakata had bothered to announce his promotion yet, not without the proper fanfare that Munakata seemed to like so much – but Fushimi ignored him, eyes fixed on his intended opponent.

Misaki stood nearly opposite him, his momentarily surprised expression melting into cold hard anger and Fushimi's smile only widened, anticipation creeping up on him so suddenly he almost laughed out loud. Misaki was back in his uniform now, having apparently been discharged from the hospital with no other issues beyond the obvious one and Fushimi's gaze slid to Misaki's left eye.

There was a black eyepatch over it now, something Misaki no doubt thought made him look 'cool.' Looking closer Fushimi could make out traces of what that eyepatch hid, the smallest hint of scarring just poking out from beneath the patch and then creeping along Misaki's upper cheek towards his ear. Beneath the eyepatch itself there was no doubt more, a mess of ravaged skin that held a ragged empty eye socket, and Fushimi's right hand shook just a little with the memory of that day in the rain. The injury always seemed to flare up on wet days but he'd learned to work through it, to force his hands to remain steady on his gun.

Awashima and Kusanagi continued pairing them off and Fushimi couldn't help but note the swallowed sigh from Kusanagi as soon as he saw who he'd just pitted Yata against. He gave Fushimi an almost disappointed look and Fushimi curled his lip in return. He didn't care what Kusanagi thought of him, of the things he'd chosen himself. He didn't care what any of Homra thought of him.

He only cared about Misaki.

Awashima motioned for everyone to face their designated opponent as she began to explain the rules of the training session. Fushimi ignored her entirely, feeling another thrill run down his spine as he stepped forward to meet Misaki.

“ _Traitor.”_ Misaki breathed the word low and angry and Fushimi couldn't help but savor the sound of it.

“What's wrong, _Misaki?”_ Fushimi laughed softly and was rewarded by the way Misaki blanched noticeably. “It's been so long. I see you're as much of an idiot as ever.” He reached out as if to touch the eyepatch and Misaki immediately moved back, the movement almost instinctive, and Fushimi froze for a moment before the smile fixed itself back on his face. 

“Don't even touch me, asshole,” Misaki growled. His hands were clenched into fists but they were shaking, as if Misaki had to force the anger out, and Fushimi's smile dropped away, hardening into a thin cold line.

Really, he still hadn't learned to let go at all. Fushimi clicked his tongue.

“I suppose I'll have to teach you again, won't I?”

Awashima gave the order for the skirmish to begin and Fushimi barely waited for the words to leave her mouth before he moved to attack.

Misaki immediately got into a defensive position, feet shifting to counter the attack he'd probably known was coming. Fushimi smirked and adjusted his position mid-movement, aiming directly for Misaki's left side.

As expected, Misaki was slow to counter, almost hesitant, and Fushimi's face narrowed in a scowl. Those idiots at Homra hadn't even bothered to teach him how to compensate for the loss of the eye. No doubt they'd all held hands and reassured Misaki that he was still as important to them as ever even with that hole in his face, played family one more time rather than open their own eyes to see the truth of the world.

Fushimi ducked under Misaki's answering blow and aimed for the left again. This time the punch landed cleanly and Misaki was sent sprawling into the dirt.

“You fucking cheater!” Misaki swore even as he dragged himself to his feet. His lip was bleeding and Fushimi laughed.

“Cheater? How naive, Misaki.” Fushimi clicked his tongue. “Do you think your enemies will take pity on you and stay where you can see them?”

He didn't bother to wait for a reply, moving in to attack again. Misaki was clearly expecting him this time, fists flashing out with an almost brutal amount of power, no doubt amplified by his inability to see exactly where Fushimi was aiming. He was reacting with the desperation of a blinded animal and Fushimi knew that he could avoid the strike if he wanted – it was directed towards the movement Misaki could sense was coming rather than his actual positioning, and dodging such a blow was child's play. Even so he let it land instead, air forced from his lungs as Misaki drove a fist into his stomach. Fushimi rolled as he hit the ground, pulling himself into a crouch with one hand wrapped around his torso as he shakily made his way to his feet.

“That's better.” No more playing friends, not anymore, and Misaki's eye was burning with hatred so deep Fushimi wanted to drown in it, to lose himself in that gaze until there was nothing left of him but an afterimage inside Misaki's mind. He gestured for Misaki to attack. “Come on.”

Misaki gave a wordless cry of frustration and anger and Fushimi felt almost _exhilarated_ as he ran to meet the attack. The world was nothing but a flashing of fists and feet, mud and bruises, pain singing underneath his skin as Misaki landed blow after blow and Fushimi responded in kind, aiming for the left side, always the left side.

“That's enough!” A hand on his collar abruptly dragged him backwards and Fushimi made an angry choked sound as he was pulled away from Misaki. Awashima stood behind him, her grip iron on his uniform as opposite them Kusanagi bodily restrained an angry Misaki.

“Yata-chan! Calm down.” Kusanagi's voice was sharp and commanding and even so it took a moment before Misaki stilled. He was breathing hard, uniform stained all over with mud and there were visible bruises on his face, his lip still bleeding and the eyepatch dangling loosely off his ear. Kusanagi looked up towards Fushimi and there was definite disappointment in his gaze now, as though he'd expected better of Fushimi. Fushimi stared defiantly back through what he was certain had to be at least one black eye.

“What did you think you were doing, Fushimi?” Awashima's grip on his uniform loosened and Fushimi clicked his tongue, averting his gaze towards the ground. She gave him an exasperated look in return. “Go back to the dorms. You are dismissed from training for the rest of the evening.”

“I believe the Captain ordered _everyone_ to attend,” Fushimi risked muttering, eyes darting back to where Misaki was standing with his face turned away and Kusanagi's hand on his shoulder. Around them the rest of the training ground had gone silent, the others having all stopped to stare at the four of them.

“Fushimi.” Awashima's voice was cold and imperious, but the hand she placed on his arm was something like gentle. “You're bleeding. Go get fixed up and get some rest.”

Fushimi looked at her blankly for a moment before he realized that one side of his uniform was soaked through with blood. Misaki had been attacking with only his fists so it was almost certainly the injury Fushimi had received on his last mission, reopened by all the movement or a lucky punch.

“Tch.” Fushimi clicked his tongue and turned away, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he staggered back towards Scepter 4's dorms. He glanced back only once, briefly, his eyes meeting Misaki's for just a moment.

“ _Traitor.”_ Misaki's gaze was burning with anger, and despite the heaviness in the air and the chill that was beginning to seep in from around the reopened wound Fushimi felt _warm._

–

“Splendid work as always, Fushimi-kun.” Munakata walked in step with him across the grounds, Fushimi's hands filled with paperwork from his last mission. “There were no problems?”

“None worth mentioning.” Fushimi shrugged, ignoring the spike of pain that accompanied the movement. He'd gotten used to that sort of thing too, by now.

It had been two months since they'd started the mixed training sessions. He'd attended every one properly, of course, as ordered, and every time he'd easily made himself Misaki's opponent. Awashima and Kusanagi exchanged strained glances but neither one had ever attempted to stop the two of them from sparring with each other, stepping in only when things became too bloody. Fushimi suspected that their lack of interference was due to Munakata's orders as well, though Munakata had said nothing of the matter. Fushimi had seen him once or twice though, observing them from the sidelines with an intrigued look on his face.

Suoh Mikoto had been there once too, watching the training with an impassive gaze as he smoked a cigarette. Misaki's face had brightened into a smile when he'd spotted Mikoto there and Fushimi had found himself digging his fingers into the fabric of his uniform, staring fixedly downward, unable to so much as meet the Red Captain's eyes.

“They certainly appear to be energetic this morning.” Munakata stopped walking and Fushimi looked up.

They had stopped right next to one of the Red Division's main training grounds. Soldiers Fushimi immediately recognized as the members of Homra were arranged in two lines, sparring, and his eyes were inevitably drawn to one figure in the distance, with a shock of red hair and a black eyepatch. Misaki's eye was bright and he was smiling confidently as he matched Akagi's movements blow for blow. They seemed evenly matched but Fushimi could tell just from the look on Misaki's face and the smoothness of his steps that Misaki's endurance and agility were going to win out in the end.

“It is quite commendable, is it not?” Munakata's voice snapped him out of his thoughts and Fushimi quickly wrenched his gaze away from Misaki to focus on his Captain's face. Munakata was still staring out at the training grounds with an unreadable smile. “Yata Misaki. It appears he has improved a great deal at compensating for attacks aimed at his left side.”

He gave Fushimi a knowing look that made something shift uncomfortably under Fushimi's skin and he abruptly turned and began to walk away.

“I guess.” As if it mattered to him, that Misaki was getting better at handling his weakness. It had nothing to do with him. That was Homra's problem, now.

–

It was still Homra's problem another six months later, when Totsuka Tatara was murdered by men under the command of the Colorless General while on a supply run.


	7. and if I forgot could you make me remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter is long ^^;;

_XII. crush_

Yata sat on top of the guard tower, staring out over the walls in the dim light of early evening. His neck felt stiff and sore from sitting in the same position too long and he shifted, trying to ignore the sick feeling that kept trying to settle in the pit of his stomach.

Normally guard duty was left to the trainees and the regular rank and file troops, especially with the way things had been getting worse with the Colorless Guard lately. But Kusanagi had specifically ordered the members of Homra to take their rotations on the walls today, and something in the pale cast of his face had made it impossible for any of them to refuse. Yata shifted again, trying to get comfortable, as if that would be enough to ease the tension wrung taut throughout his whole body.

Totsuka had left camp two days ago, on a supply run to one of the other nearby towns. The plan, according to Kusanagi, had been for him to stop at a few places in Shizume and then take the train to the next station to make some specific purchases that were difficult to obtain in town. Once he was finished he was supposed to have returned back to camp, right around sunset.

So far he hadn't returned, and there had been no word at all about his whereabouts after boarding the train to the next town over. Yata had gone down to town with Kusanagi and a few of the others the next morning when it had become clear that Totsuka hadn't made it back to camp, questioning the shop owners of the places Totsuka was supposed to have visited. He had last been seen by Anna, who had waved to him from the train platform. Beyond that there had been no word. 

The trains had been running on an irregular schedule ever since part of the railway line to the south had been destroyed by a bomb dropped from one of the Green Army's planes about a month ago. There was the possibility that Totsuka had simply missed his return train home, gotten too caught up in talking with a shopkeeper or been distracted by something interesting in the window of a store and ended up having to wait out the night elsewhere. He hadn't taken a radio with him – they had a limited supply and it was only supposed to be a day trip, after all, and into territory still firmly held by the United Colors. It was always possible that he'd just been delayed and simply had no way of letting them know.

That was what Kusanagi had said, anyway, and Yata looked down at his hands. That was all it was, just a delay. Totsuka would probably come walking up the hill any minute now, laughing sheepishly and apologizing for worrying everyone.

Even as the words crossed his mind Yata found himself gazing out at the sunset again and suddenly he sat up straight, leaning out the window. There was something approaching in the distance, a black dot against reddening sky. Yata squinted slightly, trying to get a better look – his distance vision had been affected the worst by the loss of his left eye and Kusanagi had offered to let him skip his turn on the rotation. It had rankled Yata's pride too much though, to sit aside while everyone else at least did _something._ And besides, he'd already decided that he wouldn't let a stupid thing like the loss of a single eye hold him back.

_(Not when he'd lost something deeper than that, the presence always beside him, and Yata grit his teeth at the memory even as he pushed it aside.)_

He could see the shadow more clearly now, coming closer. It was a horse, riderless, dragging something heavy behind it. Yata's skin suddenly felt cold and he ignored it, shouting at one of the nearby trainees to get Kusanagi as he made his way down the tower.

The horse was still standing there several minutes later when Kusanagi joined Yata at the gates.

“What do you think it is, Kusanagi-san?” Yata asked as Kusanagi motioned for someone to open the gates. “I mean...maybe a horse got loose in town?”

Yata tried to sound optimistic but his voice came out thin and shaking instead, a hollow echo even he didn't believe. Kusanagi looked over at him and the smile he gave Yata in reply was nothing but a ghost of itself, so much older than it should have been, and Yata felt his hands tremble where he held them fixed at his sides.

“Stay here, Yata-chan.” Kusanagi placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I'll go check on it.”

“N-no way!” Yata's answered was immediate, even as he felt that sick feeling roiling in his stomach again. “You can't go out there alone. It could be a trap, right? Or...or maybe...” He couldn't think of anything else to say and the words trailed off weakly instead. Kusanagi gave a heavy sigh, the line of his shoulders curved down and bearing that weight like a shroud he couldn't throw off.

“All right.” Kusanagi nodded. “Come on, Yata-chan.”

Kusanagi raised a hand and slowly the gate opened. Yata started to move but Kusanagi held him back for a moment, eyes darting to and fro across the landscape in front of them as if they were about to walk into the middle of a battlefield.

“Stay close, Yata-chan.” His voice was low and careful. “Keep an eye out for anything unusual.” There was a slight curving of his mouth as he spoke, having apparently realized the poor choice of words only moments after speaking them, but Yata smiled anyway.

“Right. Let's go.” Yata nodded and Kusanagi took a careful step forward before moving swiftly across the grass. Yata followed, his head in constant motion as he scanned each side of them, on full alert for any kind of surprise ambush.

There was no sign of any enemies but even so Kusanagi's movements became only more cautious as the approached the horse. It looked back at them docilely, chewing on some grass and not appearing in any way frightened by their sudden appearance. That seemed to calm Kusanagi's nerves more than anything and he straightened as he approached the horse, Yata following behind.

There was a pallet that had been attached to the horse's harness so that it could be dragged behind the animal. It had been wrapped in some sort of red cloth and as he stepped nearer to it Yata found that he was shaking again, a light shudder with every breath, and he wasn't even sure why. He glanced up at Kusanagi, who was looking at the cloth with an almost haunted look as he crouched down next to the pallet.

“This was a dress for Anna-chan.” Kusanagi's fingers touched lightly against the red fabric and Yata could make it out now, lace along the edges of torn sleeves. Kusanagi briefly placed a hand over his face. “It was one of the packages Totsuka was supposed to pick up.”

“Kusanagi-san...” The thing that had been twisting in Yata's stomach turned so painfully that Yata found himself suddenly falling to his knees. “It's—it's a ransom or something, right? Maybe—maybe Totsuka-san got attacked and he had to throw his stuff onto the horse but he got away on his own and...”

He was almost babbling now and Yata knew it, could almost see what he knew had to be the pale cast to his own face that matched the hoarseness in his voice. But he kept talking.

“Totsuka-san...” Yata swallowed. “He's fine, right?”

Kusanagi couldn't even look at him, eyes downcast as he carefully unwound the red cloth to reveal what had been bound beneath.

It was a body, clothes stained dark with dried blood. There was an obvious gunshot wound to the chest that had no doubt been the fatal blow but there were at least three other holes where the bullets had gone in. The face was covered by a blank flag.

Yata tried to look away, breath heaving as he clutched uselessly at the sleeves of his uniform. Kusanagi's face seemed to have aged a decade in only moments but his hands were steady as he pulled the flag off the body's face and confirmed what Yata supposed deep down they'd both already really known.

“Totsuka-san...!” It came out as half a sob and Yata found himself shaking Totsuka's body lightly as if trying to wake someone who'd only overslept, as if the bloody clothes and bloodless face didn't tell the tale all on their own. 

“Yata-chan...” He felt Kusanagi's hand on his shoulder, shaking slightly, and part of Yata was screaming at him to pull himself together – he was a soldier now, after all, and either way Kusanagi was certainly hurting more than he was. But Yata couldn't bring himself to stop clutching at Totsuka's still form, palm burning, the dark hole where his left eye had been stinging with tears he was no longer able to shed.

“Kusanagi-san...Kusanagi-san, he's not...he can't be...” Yata swallowed hard, fists clenching. “I don't get it...Totsuka-san's—he's not even a _soldier,_ why the hell–”

“I know.” Kusanagi's voice was distant and tired. He was staring down at the blank flag still clutched in his hands, his eyes narrowed in thought, and Yata felt a hot rush of anger run through him even as he threw his arms over his face, biting his lip as if it would stop the small hiccuping sobs trying to tear their way from his mouth.

Totsuka Tatara had been murdered by the Colorless Guard, and in that moment Yata knew there was no way Homra could ever let that stand.

–

The sky was overcast and there was a heavy mist in the air that made it hard to breathe, as if Totsuka's death had cast a pall over the camp. Yata pressed a hand over his face as he followed Kamamoto towards the mixed training grounds, slush from the previous night's light snowfall squelching under his boots.

They had a training session this morning, and just thinking about it made Yata grit his teeth. _Training,_ as if nothing at all had happened, as if there wasn't another torn ragged hole where something important had once been. That bastard the Blue Captain had given the order himself, stating that the matter of Totsuka's death was under the jurisdiction of the Blue Division now and so there was no need to suspend normal operations. It pissed Yata off – who the hell was the Blue Captain anyway, acting all high and mighty even though his rank was no different than Mikoto's. Kusanagi had ordered all of them to obey for the moment, though, not wanting to do anything that could make the Red Division appear suspicious.

Mikoto and Kusanagi were currently conducting their own investigation, after all – off the books, spies and secrets that even Yata didn't know the full details of. All he knew was that Homra had a single goal, now – revenge against the Colorless Guard, even if meant defying the direct orders they'd been given.

“Yata-san, maybe you should skip training.” Kamamoto hovered around his shoulder, nervous. “Have you even eaten anything today?”

“I'm fine,” Yata bit back, annoyed. “Kusanagi-san said we gotta act normal, right? If I don't show up it'll make everybody wonder. We can't...” He trailed off, shaking his head. “We can't let those bastards get away with this.”

“Kusanagi-san and Mikoto-san can handle it,” Kamamoto said. “Yata-san...you haven't been looking good ever since...what happened to Totsuka-san. It won't do him any good if you train yourself into exhaustion, you know?”

“Hmmph. I'm not that weak.” Yata stuffed his hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the wet ground.

So what if he hadn't eaten much? He ate enough to keep himself in shape for whenever the time came that they'd be able to get their revenge, and that was what mattered. Nothing seemed to taste the same anyway, not without Totsuka waiting at the mess hall for them, trying to prod anyone he could into trying one of his 'experimental' side dishes. All of camp seemed that way too, now – a bright summer that had faded away into sparse and distant winter, all the color gone except the blood red of the band around his arm that reminded Yata of who he was and where he stood.

He'd been having trouble sleeping too, but Yata tried not to think too much about that.

It wasn't that he was _trying_ to exhaust himself. It was just that he had vivid dreams, sometimes, ever since that day. Nightmares weren't necessarily anything new for him – he could remember nights curled up in a pallet with his hand clutched tightly in Saruhiko's, listening to Saruhiko breathe as images of frightened crowds and burning fields replayed over and over in his head. The dreams had dulled some, in the past few years, only to come back with a vengeance now – a horse approaching over the hill and Yata unable to stop himself as he went forward to meet it even though he knew what was being dragged behind.

_(And sometimes in the dream it wasn't Totsuka's body at all but Saruhiko's instead, a bloodless face and eyes open and sightless, all that bright blue drained away to nothing, no wounds anywhere on his body but his heart stilled and his breathing stopped regardless, and Yata would wake up swallowing down a scream.)_

Yata grimaced and shook his head slightly, trying to focus on the task at hand. The Blue Captain had temporarily suspended the mixed training in the wake of what had happened to Totsuka but the order had gone out this morning to start it all over again and they had no choice but to obey. It pissed him off, though, that they had to follow the whims of that guy when it was one of Homra's important people who had been killed.

_Mixed training._ Yata's hands gripped unconsciously at his sleeves, digging into the fabric. He knew what that meant, too.

Saruhiko.

Yata hadn't seen him at all since Totsuka's death – when Captain Munakata had ordered them to suspend their own investigation the Blue Division's lady lieutenant had been there as well, standing straight-backed and silent behind him, but Saruhiko had been nowhere to be seen despite being third in command. Part of Yata had wondered at that – had worried _,_ despite himself, that maybe Saruhiko had been sent off on his own solo supply run that he would never return from, and Yata couldn't help but hate his own inability to stop _caring_ about what the hell Saruhiko did and where he went.

As soon as they got within sight of the training grounds Yata felt that almost buried knot of tension deep inside start to ease. Saruhiko was there as always, leaning back on his heels and looking bored, face scrunched up slightly as though he wasn't any happier to be here than Yata was, a displeased cat in the rain. He'd always complained about training on wet days back when they'd been trainees too, constantly scowling at the mud on his uniform, and the memory made Yata's heart ache for a moment before he forced himself to swallow it down.

The Blue's Lieutenant stood alone at the head of the formation, talking quietly with one of the other Blue Division soldiers. Kusanagi would normally have been beside her but he was nowhere to be seen, and officially Yata knew the story was that Kusanagi was busy taking care of paperwork and fallout from what had happened to Totsuka. It was the same with Mikoto – important duties keeping them conveniently away from the rest of camp, Homra and the rest of the Red Division making appearances in the place of their commanding officers in order to allow Kusanagi and Mikoto to move more freely.

Kamamoto gave Yata another worried look as he moved to join the formation line with the rest of Homra. Yata bit his lip, trying to keep a lid on his own emotions as he took his place across from Saruhiko without a word. Part of him didn't want to do this at all – _couldn't_ do this, couldn't face Saruhiko of all people after what he'd already lost and what he dreamed nightly of losing further, but he knew full well that no matter what place in the line he chose Saruhiko would've found a way to face him anyway.

“You look pathetic, Misaki.” Saruhiko's cold voice made him look up. Saruhiko had taken a step forward, disrupting Scepter 4's usual clean battle formation, a hand on his hip and his head cocked to one side. 

His eyes were cold and flat and Yata couldn't stop the ache that suddenly spiked all the way down to his bones.

“I'm not listening to this shit today, Saruhiko.” It was hard to keep the shake out of his voice but he managed it somehow, and felt a little proud of himself for it. 

“Tch.” Saruhiko clicked his tongue and took another step forward, closing the space between them just a little more, and despite everything, despite the twisted smile on Saruhiko's face and the blue armband on his arm, something in Yata still wanted to reach for him and take his hand. “Is this all your pathetic Homra comes down to, in the end? One man dies, and the rest of you crumble?”

“What the _hell_ , Saruhiko?” Yata's head shot up, fists clenching again, and he stopped himself from grabbing at Saruhiko's shoulders. “You—you know what happened, right? Totsuka-san is...” Yata blinked rapidly, something damp obscuring his vision. “Totsuka-san was _murdered!”_

“I know _.”_ There was no emotion in Saruhiko's voice, and Yata didn't know what he had expected – maybe not sadness or grief, maybe not regret, but he'd hoped for _something._ Scorn maybe, or a badly disguised tremor that betrayed some sign of distress, of true emotion. But there was nothing, absolutely nothing in that voice at all. It was as if Saruhiko was talking about a thing that had happened to someone else, idly discussing the tragedy of a stranger, and it made Yata's blood burn. “Your point? If you're all so weak you can't handle the death of one person maybe the rest of you should just quit the army now. This is _war_ , Misaki. People die. That person should never have been here to begin with, it was only a matter of time before someone put him out of his misery and finally got rid of one of those stones around Homra's neck--”

“You bastard!” Yata's fists flashed out before he could stop himself, even though the order to begin training hadn't been given. Saruhiko didn't seem to mind, smile spreading ever wider, an open wound bleeding deep as his own arms came up to block and one leg moved to sweep Yata off his feet. The strike was aimed at the darkness on his left but Yata had already learned how to counter that, shifting his position to compensate for his blindspot as he slammed into Saruhiko's torso.

And then they were both falling over into the mud and slush, Yata lashing out with fists and feet and Saruhiko countering as much as he could, small spikes of pain running through Yata's body as the opposing blows connected. Saruhiko's hands were scrabbling at him too, fingers digging into Yata's sides and Yata could barely see through his own anger and grief – his head felt clouded, flashes of nightmares still too stark in his head, a riderless horse on a flat plain and Totsuka's sightless eyes staring upwards, fire at his back, cuts in his palm and pain on his left side. Dimly he thought he heard Saruhiko laughing and there was a sudden whirling of scenery as Yata found himself flat on his back, Saruhiko crouched over him staring down.

There was blood dripping from Saruhiko's nose, a cut on his lip and the beginnings of bruises on his cheeks. His eyes were dancing though, not emotionless like they'd been before but fever-bright and sparkling. He leaned down slightly, breath warm on Yata's face, and for the briefest of moments Yata had the ridiculous notion that Saruhiko was about to crush their lips together and Yata found himself arching upwards to meet it without even being consciously aware of the movement.

_(A battle line, again, and he still couldn't cross it, not here, not now.)_

_(And somewhere, dimly, a memory of floating in the darkness and gentle lips sealing themselves over his like a fleeting goodbye.)_

“Fushimi!” The sharp bark of the Blue's second in command broke the spell and Yata's hands dug into the ground beneath him as Fushimi was roughly yanked off of him. Yata turned his head, suddenly aware that the two of them were ringed by their own divisions, all watching them with varying expressions of shock and worry. The ground beneath them was torn and ravaged, as if two wild animals had been fighting for dominance, and Yata was suddenly so acutely aware of the pain in his limbs and chest that his eye stung.

“Yata-san, are you all right?” Kamamoto hovered worriedly above him, careful to stay in Yata's line of sight as he offered Yata a hand up. Yata took it shakily, swaying for a moment as he let himself be pulled to his feet. Opposite them Saruhiko stood with his face carefully turned away, hands behind his back as his Division's second in command scolded him.

“...don't know what you were thinking.” Awashima's voice was clipped and stern. Saruhiko shrugged languidly in return and Awashima sighed, putting one hand to her head as she turned to face Yata and Kamamoto. “I suppose this was to be expected, so soon. You're all dismissed for the time being. We will attempt this again another time.”

“But--” Yata started to object despite his pain before turning away with a scowl. Saruhiko wasn't even looking at him, following his superior officer back across the grounds without even a look back, and Yata's fists clenched in irritation.

“Let's go.” He turned and began to walk back towards the dorms, ignoring Kamamoto's nervous protests behind him. There was a deep pain in his chest from something more than his bruises and he furiously wiped a fist against his good eye, blaming the dampness he felt there on the slush and nothing more.

When they reached the dorms Kusanagi was waiting for them. He raised an eyebrow at Yata's disheveled state compared to the unscathed comrades around him but said nothing, only ushering them all back inside and doing a quick check of the surrounding areas before closing the door.

“I didn't think you guys would be back so quick,” Kusanagi said with a wry smile and Yata coughed nervously. He took a step forward, ready to explain, and Kusanagi held up one hand to stop him. “Don't worry about it, Yata-chan. I can guess what happened, right?”

Yata felt the heat rising in his face and didn't reply.

“Well, it worked out anyway. Mikoto's waitin' further in. We need to go over the next mission.”

“Mission?” Yata repeated blankly, his confusion echoed in the quiet discontented whispering from the others behind him. “What the hell, Kusanagi-san, you can't mean we're already being sent on another – I mean, it's barely been a week since –”

“I know.” Kusanagi held out a hand to quiet him. His face was strangely grave and Yata felt a nervous flutter in his stomach. “This is a secret mission. Those other guys out there...they don't know about it.”

“Kusanagi-san...” Someone else spoke up behind him, vocalizing the words Yata was too nervous to speak himself. “You mean...”

“Yeah.” There was an edge of grief in Kusanagi's triumphant smile that made Yata take a step closer to him. “We've found it. The place where the Colorless General is hidin'.”

–

_All right. Time to move out._

Yata's whole body felt on alert, awake and alive as he slipped out of Homra's barracks. The air was cold around him again, his breath white in the air, and the clouds hung gray in the sky, promising snow. At least they'd been lucky enough to avoid that these last few days, no fresh snow to leave a trail of footprints behind as one by one the members of Homra deserted their barracks and made their way out of camp.

There wasn't much of a way around it, in the end. The Blue Division wouldn't let them go so easily – there'd been no order given from above to move out despite the immediacy of their intelligence. Kusanagi's spies had found where the Colorless General was hiding but there was no guarantee he'd stay in one place forever. Moving out in force without a previous command could get them all discharged from the army for good, of course, but it had been mutually agreed that this was a risk they were all willing to take.

For Totsuka's sake.

Yata blew distractedly on his hands, trying to restore some warmth to them as he continued his complicated circuit of the camp. As soon as they'd returned from the disastrous mixed training session Kusanagi had ushered them all into one of the back storage rooms, the members of Homra clustered around a single candle as Kusanagi mapped out the plan for their escape from camp and their inevitable battle with the Colorless Guard. Mikoto was supposed to be keeping that asshole the Blue Captain distracted while the rest of Homra carefully made their way out of camp, aided as much as possible by the more trustworthy members of the rank and file and trainee corps. It was a long way out of camp, of course, Yata's route taking him behind buildings he didn't even remember passing before, but it was necessary in order to keep himself from being too conspicuous to any Blue Division soldiers who might spot him. As soon as he managed to make his escape he was to meet the rest of Homra behind the rise just out of sight of the base, where they would wait for Mikoto to join them before moving out.

Yata remembered the fire he'd felt in the pit of his stomach as he stared down at that map, at the black circle that marked the place where the Colorless Guard was currently stationed. It would be a hard march there, with only what supplies they could safely sneak away, but it was worth it if that was what it took to take down the bastards who had murdered Totsuka.

And beyond that, Yata remembered the light from the candle reflecting off Mikoto's hair as he stepped forward after Kusanagi had explained the plan, eyes burning brighter than the fire.

“ _We'll crush it.”_

Yata couldn't deny that his heart had soared at those words, at the determination in Mikoto's eyes. There was no way they could fail, not with Mikoto leading them.

He was nearly to the gates now and Yata risked increasing his pace from a nonchalant walk to a jog. Almost there, and he hadn't encountered a single Blue soldier. This would be easier than he'd thought.

“Well, well, what have we here, _Misaki?”_

_Shit._ Yata felt his heart begin to pound heavy in his chest as he quietly cursed himself for being overconfident. He took a slow steadying breath as he turned around, trying to keep his temper in check as he faced the person leaning on the wall behind him. Saruhiko's posture was loose and easy, not defensive in the least, and Yata couldn't stop the sudden spike of panic as it crossed his mind that maybe Saruhiko had already figured out what Yata was doing, what Homra had planned. 

“Go away, Saruhiko. I don't have time to deal with an asshole traitor like you today.” He kept his voice steady with an effort. He couldn't afford to lose control, not here, not _now._

“Is that so?” Saruhiko's smile didn't fade, only widened instead. He moved forward to block Yata's way, and Yata could clearly see the two pistols holstered at his waist, the newer pistol along with the old scavenged one from what seemed like a lifetime ago. “I thought the Red Division had combat practice this afternoon. Are you skipping out on your duties, _Misaki?”_

“I'm delivering a message for Kusanagi-san.” That was the lie he'd been told to tell if he got caught, anyway, and judging from the way Saruhiko tilted his head Yata knew that it wasn't believed in the least.

“Really? Well, I suppose Kusanagi-san is too busy to do his own work right now. What with Suoh Mikoto's _court martial,_ and all.”

“What?” Yata's defensive posture dropped away almost entirely, body stiff with shock and it took him a moment to recover himself. Saruhiko laughed in reply, as if pleased to have been the one to deliver the news – that cold laugh that was nothing like the soft sincere one Yata had always treasured so much, and the spot where his left eye should have been ached.

“Haven't you heard?” Saruhiko reached up and scratched at something by his collar, near where his tattoo used to be. _Used to be,_ and it stung Yata so much that he had to look back up at Saruhiko's face instead. That was somehow almost worse, the smirk on Saruhiko's face and the breathy amusement lining his tone, a hint of mocking laughter tainting every word. This twisted reflection of the person Yata had once treasured more than anyone, and it had never hurt more. “Captain Munakata called him to the main building this morning. Seems the Captain's uncovered evidence of that man's plan to desert camp. It's shameful, really. How's that for Homra's _pride,_ Misaki? Knowing your Captain was ready to run off and leave us all in the dust of his _retreat_?”

“It's not a retreat!” Yata's temper was getting the better of him, he could feel it happening, but the anger burning through him was too hot to back away from. There was a sharp throbbing pain in his hand as he grabbed at the front of Saruhiko's coat, roughly pulling him close. Saruhiko didn't even attempt a token resistance, limp and pliable in Yata's grip. “Mikoto-san is just trying to avenge Totsuka-san's –”

“His _death?”_ Saruhiko clicked his tongue. “What worthless words, Misaki. _Avenge?_ Don't make me laugh. That man is just trying to satisfy his own desires, as always, and dragging the rest of you down with him.”

“Didn't you care at all, Saruhiko?” It _hurt,_ having to say the words. There was a part of him still desperate to know that the old Saruhiko was in there somewhere, trapped behind the barbed wire of this Saruhiko's smile, and Saruhiko's eyes darkened at the words. “Totsuka-san was our _friend._ He was always a good guy even to an asshole like you who didn't deserve it. Didn't you feel anything when you heard he'd been killed? Didn't – don't you want to make the guys who did it pay?”

Saruhiko's face was entirely blank again and Yata could feel himself shaking as he pushed Saruhiko up against the wall. 

“Totsuka-san was _murdered_ by those Colorless assholes. You really wanna just let them go free after that?” Yata swallowed hard, throat suddenly dry. “Come with us, Saruhiko. You're—you were one of us, right? You can't just walk away from this either. If we have your help I know we can teach those guys a lesson. So...so....”

“You're an idiot, Misaki.” Saruhiko's hand slapped his away roughly as he pulled himself from Yata's grip. “All you're doing is rushing yourself headlong into an early grave. But then, that's what you do best, isn't it?” His hand brushed against Yata's eyepatch and Yata instinctively pulled his head back. Saruhiko seemed to pause for only half a second, barely noticeable, but enough. “ 'One of you?' Don't make me laugh. I was different from all of you right from the start and you were the only one too...blind...to see it.” There was something in the way he said the word 'blind' that made Yata look up, a sudden stirring in his heart as to what he might see, but Saruhiko's face was hard and cold staring down. 

“That's not true, Saruhiko! You and I were partners, right? We've always been--”

“Only an idiot clings to a useless past.” Saruhiko turned to walk away and Yata remained standing where he was, confused. “You don't understand at all yet, do you, Misaki? Suoh Mikoto will be out of the army as soon as the Captain's message makes it to Mihashira. If you're not careful the rest of you will share his fate. You saw what following Suoh Mikoto did for Totsuka-san. Use your head for once, or you'll end up the one tied to the back of a horse.”

Saruhiko's footsteps continued steadily away from him and then he rounded a corner and was gone, leaving Yata to stare blankly at the spot where he had been.

“Sorry, Saruhiko.” Yata clenched a fist, nodding to himself as he whirled around and continued his way out of camp.

Most of Homra was already waiting for him when he finally made it to the meeting place, even the ones who had been assigned to leave after him already pacing restlessly in wait. Kusanagi raised an eyebrow at Yata's muttered apology for being late but he didn't press Yata any further.

The only one not present was Mikoto himself and Yata shifted uncomfortably as he remembered Saruhiko's words, glancing back uneasily the way he'd come. 

The time seemed to drag on and Yata couldn't help but feel the nervousness crawling down his spine again. He could tell the others were feeling the same, everyone hyped up and on edge – all except Kusanagi, who was leaning on a tree and smoking a cigarette as he stared back impassively towards camp. Yata found himself wondering if they should try to sneak back into camp to find Mikoto, only to have the words die in his throat at the sound of a muffled explosion in the distance. Kusanagi straightened, tossing his cigarette on the ground and putting it out with his shoe as he stepped forward with a slight sigh.

“Well, I knew he'd find a way to make a distraction.”

Shortly afterward there was a quiet cheer as a figure came up over the hill, looking calm as ever and not at all like someone who had just set fire to his own army camp in order to make his escape. 

“Mikoto-san!” Yata felt his heart leap, confidence again soaring through him at the slight smile Mikoto gave him in reply. 

There was no way they could lose, not now, not with the strongest Captain of them all at their head. They were going to hunt down those bastards who killed Totsuka, get their revenge and then come back heroes, fuck what the Blue Division and their stupid Captain wanted.

“Everyone get ready to move out. You have two minutes.” The rest of Homra immediately began to move on Kusanagi's order, checking over the supplies they were bringing with them and confirming the status of their weaponry.

As Yata began to look over his own pack he found himself glancing back towards the darkness they’d left behind, that slight red glow on the horizon that had flared up with Mikoto's arrival. He couldn't deny the part of him suddenly surging up in an almost painful longing – the undeniable hope that maybe now, when things were at their worst and Yata needed someone by his side, Saruhiko would come running up the hill with a red armband on instead of blue, asking to come along. Couldn't stop hoping that maybe Saruhiko would pledge his loyalty again and come _with_ them, come to avenge Totsuka along with the rest of Homra where he had always, always belonged, would reach out a hand to Yata and Yata would take it in his own and not let go, not this time.

No one came, and Yata marched away from camp without looking back.

_XIII. bleeding lip_

Fushimi swore to himself as he crossed the grounds, weaving between buildings. Taking such a roundabout route through camp was irritating, but the open areas were already clogged with soldiers trying to put out the fires that had been set by an escaping Suoh Mikoto.

He had realized, too late, that the rest of Homra was missing and Fushimi's hand reached up to scratch at the scar on his chest. He should've known better than to let Misaki go so easily – it had been clear that Misaki was hiding _something_ and yet Fushimi had let him go anyway, distracted by things he didn't want to linger on. He'd been halfway back to barracks when he'd smelled smoke on the wind and seen several Blue Division soldiers running past him with clear urgency in their movements.

Awashima had found him shortly afterward and breathlessly informed him that Suoh Mikoto had escaped custody. Munakata was currently away, having left early that morning – they were still having issues communicating with Mihashira and Munakata had decided that perhaps making an attempt from somewhere outside the camp itself might yield better results. He had left them orders, of course, in the event of Mikoto's escape. No one was to face him, no one was to harm him or stop him. They were to regroup instead and await Munakata's further orders.

_Stupid._ It was obvious what Mikoto and Homra had in mind: worthless revenge against the Colorless Guard, something that would more than likely get them all killed. Fushimi grimaced as he quietly cursed his own weakness. He should have dragged Misaki back to Scepter 4's barracks and kept him there by any means necessary until he'd spilled the full details of Homra's ridiculous plan.

Fushimi rounded another corner, still muttering quietly to himself. He wasn't far from the southernmost exit. Hopefully those idiot trainees on watch duty hadn't abandoned their posts entirely and could at least tell him how long it had been since the last member of Homra had gone through, though Fushimi supposed that getting the answer might require some...persuasion on his part.

There were footsteps approaching him from behind and Fushimi whirled just in time to see Suoh Mikoto turn the corner himself, head down and smoking a cigarette as if on an evening stroll.

“Mikoto-sa--” Fushimi's mouth snapped shut, the words cut off as though he'd sliced through them with a knife. His feet felt rooted to the spot but he still managed to close his right hand over the grip of one of his pistols even as a familiar spike of old pain shot through his wrist. He was dimly aware that he was shaking, so hard that he couldn't stop, trapped dead in the spot and unable to move an inch as Mikoto walked towards him. 

Mikoto didn't even so much as look up at him, walking past as though Fushimi wasn't there at all, and somehow that was what finally allowed Fushimi's voice to get past the lump building in his throat.

“You're leading them all to their deaths.” His voice sounded strained and thin to his own ears. For a moment he thought Mikoto would keep walking and he bit his lip hard, eyes narrowing. Of course Mikoto would keep walking. Of course Mikoto wouldn't even so much as acknowledge Fushimi's presence. Beneath his notice entirely, as always.

Even as he thought it, though, Mikoto's footsteps slowed and he stopped, and looked back.

“Maybe.”

“It's selfish, isn't it?” The shake in Fushimi's voice was clear and he hated it, hated all this weakness that always came bubbling to the surface whenever he was in the presence of Suoh Mikoto. “You're dragging all of them into your own stupid revenge. Misaki--” He stopped, grit his teeth, fingers digging into his palms and he still couldn't grasp the gun properly. “You're going to get all of them killed.”

“Yeah. I know.” Mikoto gave him something like an apologetic smile as he walked back over to where Fushimi stood frozen.

“Misaki--” Fushimi swallowed, hating himself, and the scar on his chest throbbed painfully. “Aren't they all your precious _comrades?_ You don't mind dragging them all down with you to die, just to satisfy your own indulgences?” Fushimi felt something hot burning behind his eyes. “That makes you the worst sort of person, doesn't it?”

“Probably. Sorry.” He didn't sound sorry at all and Fushimi wished he could force his hand to grasp the pistol, wished his body would just listen to the screaming of his mind and stop all this right now, orders be damned. His heart was pounding so hard he felt almost faint as Mikoto stopped just inches from where Fushimi stood, looking down at him with an unreadable expression. Fushimi couldn't meet his gaze, eyes reflexively fixed on the ground.

And then he felt a hand resting lightly on his head – gently, without any hostility or hatred at all.

“You've got your own duties to take care of too, right?” The hand removed itself a moment later and there was the sound of Mikoto's footfalls moving away. Even so, Fushimi couldn't look up. “You're fine the way you are, Fushimi. Go back to camp.”

Fushimi's clenched fists shook, his entire body swaying with the force of his choked breaths and pounding heart, and Fushimi finally raised his head.

“Mikoto-san!” The words tore themselves from his throat, dragged up from somewhere deep inside, the part of him that he'd wanted to carve out and hadn't quite managed to. Mikoto didn't even so much as turn this time, only raised one hand in a half-hearted farewell as he walked away, and all Fushimi could do was stare uselessly at Mikoto's back, again and always.

Time seemed to have slowed around him and Fushimi finally shook his head rapidly like a wet dog in the rain, as if to wash off the remnants of Mikoto's touch, and then he turned and made his way back towards the center of camp with another curse.

Awashima was waiting for him and as he got closer Fushimi could see that Munakata was already there as well. Munakata was talking with her in low tones, eyes dark, and Awashima was staring back at him in something like worry.

Fushimi saluted lazily as he approached. Awashima gave him a sharp look but said nothing, her gaze returning to Munakata instead.

“Ah, Fushimi-kun, there you are.” Munakata greeted him. “Awashima-kun and I were just discussing our current situation. I had hoped that by keeping Suoh Mikoto confined to quarters it would be enough to keep the rest of Homra in place until we could receive orders from Mihashira. It seems I was too optimistic.”

“Sir...” Awashima looked concerned.

“I have been aware for some time that Homra has been attempting to hunt down the hiding place of the Colorless Guard,” Munakata continued, voice matter of fact and face cold and calm. “All in service of seeking revenge for the murder of Totsuka Tatara. I had hoped that by relaying this information to the Silver General at Mihashira I might be able to get reinforcements for our own troops, so that I could lead a team to where the Colorless General has hidden himself in order to defeat our enemy in a single coordinated strike before the Red Division could get involved. But I suppose expecting that man to behave in a reasonable manner was a foolish hope in and of itself.”

“Captain!” They all turned as one of Scepter 4's soldiers, Akiyama, came running breathlessly up to them, saluting quickly as he slowed to a stop. “You were correct, sir. We have rounded up the remaining members of the Red Division, as ordered. Suoh Mikoto is not among them, nor are any of the members of the special unit Homra.”

“That idiot.” The words came from Fushimi's mouth without him even realizing it. Of course that was what this was all about, and he quietly cursed himself again for having let Misaki go so easily. He'd known Misaki was lying about running an errand for Kusanagi, of course – Misaki still couldn't lie properly to save his life. But Fushimi had assumed that whatever Misaki was hiding it wouldn't matter, not with Suoh Mikoto in captivity. 

“I see. Thank you, Akiyama-kun. Please gather the rest of the Blue Division and bring them here.” Munakata still looked slightly troubled and it made Fushimi feel on edge, seeing that normally unflappable calm ruffled.

“Are we going to arrange a pursuit, sir?” Awashima asked what Fushimi had been thinking and Munakata finally looked up at them.

“Though the communications signal was poor, I was able to get through briefly to a man claiming to the Silver General's second in command,” he said at last, and the phrasing he'd used made Fushimi raise an eyebrow. “The orders I received in return were clear. If Suoh Mikoto escapes camp, no one is to follow. The Red Division has been officially disbanded, and are no longer due any assistance from the United Colors.”

“But--!” Awashima stopped, the shock still evident on her face. Munakata's displeasure at the order was clear enough, and Fushimi's fist clenched tight.

They weren't to follow. They were leaving Homra to their fate.

Leaving _Misaki_ to whatever his fate may be, and Fushimi was suddenly too aware of the tremble in his own breathing.

“Being as the members of Homra have indeed gone missing from the base I can only assume that they have discovered the current location of the Colorless Guard,” Munakata continued. “Before I returned here I therefore stopped at Homra's barracks and did a thorough search of the grounds. I uncovered this.” He reached into his coat and held out a folded piece of paper. Awashima took it from him carefully.

“This is...”

“A map.” Munakata nodded. “You will note the mark between two of our bases to the north, just on the border of our own held territory. This is, I believe, where the Colorless Guard is currently lying in wait for their next conquest.”

“So?” Fushimi spoke up at last, unable to stop the hand that rose up to scratch at the scar on his collar. “We're not allowed to go after Homra, right?”

“Indeed.” Munakata nodded. “However, I was given no orders as to how to handle the Colorless General and his men. Such matters, I assume, have been left to my own discretion. A chance such as this does not come along often, and it would be remiss of me not to take advantage of it.” There was a glint in his eyes that made Fushimi feel oddly lightheaded, something like anticipation surging through his veins. “These are my orders. Once the Blue Division's forces have been gathered, we march on the Colorless Guard's base of operations.”

“We're helping Homra?” Fushimi kept his voice carefully neutral.

“Of course not, Fushimi-kun.” Munakata smiled brilliantly. “That would be explicitly against orders. We are simply taking advantage of the opportunity set in front of us, in order to defeat once and for all an enemy that has long troubled our forces.” 

“That's convenient.” Fushimi snorted. “This is unlike you, Captain.”

“Is that so?” Munakata said, blandly polite, and Fushimi looked away with a click of his tongue. “If you would please prepare the force for departure. Homra has quite a head start on us, and it would not do if the enemy were to escape before we arrived.”

With that Munakata turned his attention to Awashima and the map he'd handed her, already laying out the swiftest course to their intended destination. Fushimi took a step back, head down, still scratching at his scar.

_I shouldn't have let him go._ It was a weak, irritating thought, and Fushimi's eyes narrowed as he curved his fingers, letting his nails dig deep into the skin and finally draw blood. Annoying, so annoying, that he should still feel anything like this towards Misaki, that his breath felt caught in his throat when he thought of what Misaki could be facing alone.

He'd left because it was the only way to make Misaki understand, after all, but even now it was clear that the idiot had learned nothing. For the sake of a dead man Misaki was risking his life again, and there was nothing Fushimi could do but follow uselessly after, like always. Even after everything he'd discarded it seemed that this one thing wouldn't fade, no matter how hard he tried to let it go – the desire, even now, to be certain that Misaki was all right, that Misaki was safe, that Misaki was _alive._

Fushimi bit his lip, and let any feelings bubbling up be smothered by the bitter taste of blood in his mouth.

–

The sky was gray and the ground was covered by a thin layer of fallen snow as Fushimi stood on a hill and stared down impassively at Suoh Mikoto's funeral procession below.

He'd known the graveyard was here, directly behind the camp – of course a military base would have a graveyard, and a smile colder than the air crossed his face. A place where all fallen soldiers eventually went to rest, regardless of division. He'd overheard some of the other Scepter 4 members talking about it earlier in hushed tones, sharing stories of a Kusuhara Takeru, a soldier from the lower ranks who had been killed taking a bullet for Munakata and who now lay somewhere there below, deep in the earth. The previous Blue and Red Captains were rumored to rest here too, Habari Jin and Kagutsu Genji who had both died in an ill-conceived sortie Kagutsu had initiated against the Colorless forces years ago only to be blindsided by Hisui Nagare's betrayal and eventually killed. 

Totsuka Tatara's grave was here too, somewhere. Fushimi was too far away to read the headstones but he wouldn't doubt it if someone told him that the grave to Mikoto's right bore that name.

The entire Red Division stood in a ring around the open grave, not just Homra but the rank and file troops as well, all the way down to the trainees. He could just make out Anna there too, dressed all in red and holding tight to Kusanagi's hand. Suoh Mikoto's impending court martial had been suspended in the wake of his so-called 'heroic' sacrifice, Homra's sins forgiven in light of the death of their Captain. There was punishment, of course, and half the soldiers gathered below would be on the first train out of camp by the next morning, but the remainder had been allowed to reinstate the Red Division as best they could with Kusanagi as their temporary leader.

Orders that ostensibly came from Mihashira, received shortly after they'd returned to camp. Only Munakata, Awashima and Fushimi himself knew that they'd received no such orders, that Mihashira had never even so much as replied to Munakata's message informing headquarters of the death of the Red Captain and the total annihilation of the Colorless Guard. Neither the Gold nor Silver generals had been heard from now and Fushimi was well aware that all the pomp and circumstance below, the military funeral and the red flag that draped Mikoto's coffin, even the reinstatement of the Red Division, were all on _Munakata's_ order. Munakata was the one running the camp now, under the figurehead of the missing generals whose silence remained a mystery.

Munakata, whose sword had taken the life of both the Colorless General and of Suoh Mikoto as well, Mikoto holding the enemy in place so that Munakata could deal the final blow regardless of the cost.

The rest of the Colorless Guard had fallen apart after the death of their General. The Blue Division had made quick work of the remaining soldiers and it had been easy after that, to round up the shell-shocked members of Homra and place them under arrest for going AWOL. Misaki had been there too, of course, staring straight ahead with a haunted look and tear tracks clear down one side of his face. He hadn't even looked up at Fushimi as he'd been ushered into the trucks with the rest of Homra, and he still hadn't looked up hours later when Fushimi had accompanied Munakata to the holding cell to inform Homra that their treason had been forgiven and that their Captain was to be buried with full military honors.

Fushimi remembered that moment, standing there staring into the darkness of the holding cell while Munakata droned on about honor and duty as though Suoh Mikoto's meaningless sacrifice was something to be proud of. Remembered the hunch of Misaki's shoulders and how they shook, the blankness in his expression as he stared down at his hands. He hadn't even seemed to notice that Fushimi was there and without being quite aware of it Fushimi had found himself stepping forward, something acid on his tongue, before he was stopped by Munakata almost imperceptibly adjusting his stance so that he was between Fushimi and the darkened inside of the cell. Munakata's gaze had focused on him just once, quickly, but the look was enough to make Fushimi swallow the bile in his throat and step back.

It was ridiculous, that he should care so much about where Misaki was looking, that he should be haunted by the memory of Suoh Mikoto's back. He'd almost hoped for it then, for just a moment, that Homra might be destroyed and turned out of the army and left with nothing – that Misaki, too, might be thrown out alone in the dark with only that ghost for company and then maybe he would seek it, would look up and reach for Fushimi's hand again. And Fushimi would pull away, would move his hand back with a laugh or a taunt and feel the burning gaze of hatred on _his_ back instead. Even if Misaki was no longer in the army Fushimi was confident he could find a way to make that world his own, to bring it close without biting down, find a way in the dark to get through the door without opening it.

But Homra remained, broken and fragile but still there, held up by the strings of Mikoto's ghost. Fushimi had intended to skip the funeral himself – as if he'd be wanted there anyway, him, the traitor – but Munakata had insisted that everyone in camp attend and had made it quite clear that he considered Fushimi to be a part of that _everyone._

It was ridiculous, and Fushimi clicked his tongue in irritation as he stared down at the gathered soldiers below. The rest of the Blue Division was mostly scattered around the edges of the funeral, standing at attention, clearly only here on the formality. That any of them should need to pay homage to a man who had sought his own death, Fushimi couldn't think of anything stupider.

“Does this displease you, Fushimi-kun?” Fushimi started in surprise; he hadn't even realized that Munakata had come up beside him. Munakata's face was turned away, staring down at the cloth-draped coffin with an unreadable expression.

“Tch. I have work piling up, that's all.” Fushimi didn't quite know where to look, eyes restless on Mikoto's coffin and Misaki's sloping shoulders, Anna's white hands and Munakata's hooded face, and he looked up at the clouds instead. The snow had begun falling in earnest and he wondered if he should have worn a heavier coat. Munakata was in his dress uniform, as befitted the ceremony, but Fushimi had only worn his normal jacket.

“I believe the work will still be there in a few hours, Fushimi-kun,” Munakata assured him. Fushimi scowled, rubbing at his arms to restore the feeling to a body long ago gone numb.

“Do we need to be here, Captain?” Fushimi supposed he might as well say it, get it out into the air, almost visible along with his breath. There was a slight glow of red on the horizon, a sunset covered by hazy gray clouds, and it spread like a stain over the snow and the figures below, dyed Mikoto's entire coffin red like blood.

And Misaki too, bathed in red. Fushimi's breath caught for just a moment, a second's betrayal from even his own body, and he looked at the sky again in open defiance of the things he wouldn't let himself feel.

“Suoh Mikoto was a Captain of the United Armies,” Munakata said mildly, and the red reflecting off his chest seemed entirely wrong. Fushimi had joined the Blue Division to get away from that color, after all. “As such, it would be improper for the entire gathered force to not appear for his funeral, would it not?”

“Look at those grieving idiots,” Fushimi muttered dismissively. “They wouldn't even notice if we were here or not.”

“No, they would not,” Munakata agreed easily. “Even so.”

The silence that followed was strange, ice in the air, and Fushimi felt as though the breath was freezing the words in his throat. There was something else there too, like the smell of gunpowder, and all of a sudden Fushimi felt sick and had to turn his head away entirely.

“Did you know this would be the outcome?” He asked because it was a powder keg and Fushimi was well used to being a spark, by now. If it would warm him, that was enough.

“I'm afraid I don't understand your meaning, Fushimi-kun.”

“Don't give me that,” Fushimi said archly. “You knew Mihashira wouldn't give you clearance to go after him. There was no reason to wait so long to dispatch us in pursuit of Suoh Mikoto. I could have--” He couldn't and he knew it. Fushimi fell silent and clicked his tongue instead.

“Procedure must be followed regardless.” There was something almost like _regret_ in Munakata's voice, and Fushimi shuddered with the force of his own breathing. “It is important to maintain order in wartime as much as possible. If the chain of command is broken then everything else may fall to ruin.” Munakata smiled slightly. “Of course, an unreasonable person once told me that such things are folly in wartime as well. I wonder what your thoughts are on the matter, Fushimi-kun?”

“Does it even matter now?” Fushimi muttered in reply. There was another question on the tip of his tongue and a lingering memory, holes dug deep and dark. “Do you regret it? Ending it that way.”

“My duty is to uphold the peace and security of this nation as the Captain of the Blue Division,” Munakata replied, but there was something in his eyes as he stared at the coffin that made Fushimi's gaze travel downward for just a moment towards Misaki, towards the black stain of an eyepatch that covered Misaki's left eye. “As such, I intend to carry out my duty to the end...regardless of my own personal feelings on the matter.”

“That man was dead anyway.” Fushimi didn't even know if he meant it as a comfort or simply a fact. The snow began falling heavier and Kusanagi threw his jacket around Anna's shoulders, a small dot of black that stood out starkly against her red clothes and white hair.

Fushimi knew the truth of that statement too, knew that the only difference Munakata's sword had made was whether Mikoto died alone or Colorless died with him. He'd seen the body, after all – Munakata had ordered that Suoh Mikoto's remains be returned to camp and Homra was in no position to be the ones entrusted with it. In truth, Fushimi hadn't been entrusted with it either; Akiyama had been placed in charge of that while Munakata ordered Fushimi to make a sweep of the area to be sure no members of the Colorless Guard had escaped and were lurking nearby to ambush them on the long road home. 

He'd gone to look at the body anyway. It wasn't out of any kind of misplaced affection, that was for certain, and Munakata's order given to Akiyama and not him was in no way a kindness, no feelings that needed to be spared. Fushimi had no attachment to that person, after all. All Suoh Mikoto had ever done for him was carry him out of one fire and into another. Better if Mikoto had left him in that factory to choke and sputter his way to a miserable death than drag him out into smoke so thick he couldn't work his way through, where he'd lost hold of Misaki's hand and Misaki's gaze, and Fushimi knew it, knew it deep down in the hollows of his stomach and the winding cellar of his mind, that he was in no way ' _fine the way you are.'_ He would have fit in if he was. 

Misaki would have that same clear-eyed gaze still, with both eyes open, if he was.

He would have liked to think that Suoh Mikoto was small and pathetic in death but that was a lie to bitter for even Fushimi to swallow down without choking on it. Suoh Mikoto dead was the same as Suoh Mikoto alive, a raging fire that swallowed everything whole, indifferent to Fushimi's gaze as he'd always been ( _and yet he stopped to look at you as he left,_ the section of Fushimi's mind not yet treasonous enough had whispered, and Fushimi had dug a hand into his scarred chest). Mikoto's wounds had still been bleeding slightly, dripping onto the wet ground, bullet holes and broken bones, the wound that had killed him deep and dark in the center of his chest. Staring at him Fushimi had felt vaguely like throwing up and so he'd stayed there, stubborn, as the others prepared a stretcher under the body and finally threw a sheet over it.

'The body,' now, not Suoh Mikoto anymore, and somehow that hadn't made Fushimi feel any better.

“Perhaps.” Munakata's reply made him jump slightly, so lost in the maze of his mind – no exit, he hadn't found one yet, and the lights had been out for a very long time – that he had almost forgotten they were speaking. 

“Would you have done it, if you thought he could be saved?” If the Lieutenant had been there Fushimi supposed she would have yelled at him for refusing to remove the bullet from the wound, but his heart was beating hard and it felt like he might faint if he didn't spit those trapped words out.

“If that was the only way to achieve victory,” Munakata said, voice steady, but his eyes were still on the coffin. A memory fluttered up in Fushimi's mind, sudden, of seeing Munakata walking towards the dining hall once with Suoh Mikoto two steps ahead, one hand reaching back to light Munakata's cigarette with his own. 

“That's stupid.” Fushimi spoke before he could stop to think about it and felt annoyed by it. Munakata's choices shouldn't mean anything to him. If he'd been in Munakata's place he would have done it too, after all, and gladly.

There was the bitter bile of a lie in the back of his mouth again and Fushimi grimaced. Munakata laughed, quietly, and it sounded brittle on the wind.

“Perhaps.” Munakata stepped forward, gaze fixed on the red-draped coffin below. “But there is a path I have chosen to follow to its end and I do not intend to stop now. Suoh Mikoto has made his choices. I intend to make my own as well.”

“More like made the choice for you, isn't it?” That was another old memory or a hundred of them, long nights in crowded barracks, the top of a rickety tower and warm hands cradling him in the rain, and his right wrist suddenly throbbed. “That person only did what he wanted until the very end and didn't give a crap about the mess he left for the rest of us to clean up.”

“There is, I suppose, a certain truth in such sentiments.” It sounded like an agreement but Fushimi somehow couldn't quite be sure. “But even so, I believe I did make a choice myself that day. Whether my hand was forced or not, it was by my own will that events turned out as they did. I will not regret that. This war is not over yet, Fushimi-kun. There is little to be gained by staring backwards upon a battlefield already won, no matter the cost.”

“No matter the cost, huh?” Fushimi clicked his tongue and finally began to walk away. He half-expected Munakata to scold him for it but Munakata remained silent, still ever looking down on the coffin, red stain on dark wood, and Fushimi didn't look at Misaki.

The snow continued to fall cold and heavy, and Fushimi walked away in silence.


	8. distance would forge us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long again ^^;; At least I got an update in before the new year.

_XIV. graze_

“Yata-san, come on! You'll get in trouble if you miss training again.”

“Fuck training.” Yata muttered the words into his pillow, lying flat on his stomach in his own bunk with the covers pulled over his head. He could hear the sound of a light rain tapping on the roof of the barracks and all his limbs felt cold and heavy.

_Cold,_ a word that weighed in his mind and sunk like a stone – cold was a body lying motionless in bloodstained grass, cold was a coffin lowered into the ground on a snowy evening, a chill that had crept inside him and rooted itself there until even rising from his own bed felt like a chore.

“Yata-san...” He heard Kamamoto sigh behind him, the sound muffled by the blankets. “I'll cover for you, all right? But you gotta get up sometime, you can't stay like this forever. Homra...”

“Doesn't exist anymore, right?” Despite the sharp spike of anger that ran through him at the words Yata couldn't bring himself to raise his voice above a low mumble, the sound flat and empty in his own ears.  Just an echo of himself, the same as everything else, the lingering ghost of a feeling that had long since left him behind.

There was no reply from behind him and Yata screwed his eyes shut, trying to drown out the pounding ache in his head. His left eye ached slightly, a reminder of old pain that had grown stronger since that day three months ago when Homra had soundly defeated the Colorless Guard and killed their general.

Defeated the Colorless Guard and killed their general, at the cost of Captain Suoh Mikoto's life.

_Mikoto-san..._ It was a pain that didn't go away, no different than the ache in his eye, another widening of the invisible hole that had been torn somewhere inside the day Saruhiko had left and had only grown wider since, edges ripped open again by Totsuka's loss. The place where something had once existed and no longer did, only emptiness left behind, deep scars and old wounds. A bullet hole, still bleeding, that wouldn't close.

The scenery replayed itself in his dreams all the time now – blood on the snow as he fought his way through soldier after soldier, gun empty, fists aching, blood streaking his knuckles but a smile on his face, knowing the rest of Homra was nearby, all of them fighting and _winning,_ despite the odds. He hadn't even realized that they weren't the only ones fighting until he'd whirled to face a presence he could feel approaching from his left side, weapon already out and ready to take down the enemy approaching from behind.

Except where he'd expected yet another Colorless soldier there had instead been Saruhiko, standing there wet and irritated in the snow with his pistols holstered at his side. For one moment Yata's heart had soared – he'd come back, after everything, now when Yata needed him most – and then Saruhiko had smiled and pulled one of his pistols out of its holster with the barrel aimed straight at Yata. 

Things had been a whirl after that, Saruhiko with guns drawn saying some crap about court martial and going AWOL, Blue Division soldiers streaming around them both, and a rumor on the wind that quickly became undeniable fact: Suoh Mikoto was dead, and the Red Division was as good as lost without him.

Yata could remember staring at his hands clenched against the snow, blood covering his skin and his fingers numb from cold, his gloves lost somewhere in the mess of the battle he'd left behind. Staring down helplessly at hands that couldn't hold onto anything, once again, and then Saruhiko had pulled him to his feet while droning something official-sounding in a voice that seemed completely unaffected by the chaos around them. Yata hadn't even been able to look at him, not then and not hours later when he sat with the rest of Homra in the dark holding cell waiting for the Blue General to announce their fate.

Yata's face twisted in irritation at the memory. The Blue General, who was now all but in charge of the camp, who walked around acting like Homra owed him some kind of loyalty even though he wasn't – would never – be their commander. Kusanagi was, for the moment, provisionally in charge of the Red Division but everyone knew that the post was ceremonial at best, just enough of a rank so that there would be someone to take the blame if the rest of the Red Division decided to cause trouble again. Not that there was much of a Red Division left anyway – most of the trainees and the rank and file were gone, sent off to other outposts almost as soon as Mikoto's funeral was over. It made the camp seem hollower, emptier, and it only made the ache in Yata's body worse.

Homra was the only thing that remained of the Red Division now and even they were fragmented, falling apart. He rarely saw Kusanagi, if at all – Kusanagi had been constantly buried by paperwork ever since they'd come back, under watch at all times from the rest of the Blues. Yata had been confused about that until Kamamoto had pointed out that the heaviest punishment for what Homra had done was of course going to fall on the head of Mikoto's right hand, and Yata hadn't been able to stop the creep of guilt crawling up his throat. He'd been so sure, that they would defeat Colorless and return victorious. The idea of failure had never crossed his mind, to say nothing of a victory that may as well have been a loss. And he hadn't at all thought that Kusanagi would suffer more than anyone over what they had all chosen to do together, the fate Homra had accepted on all their heads for the sake of avenging the loss of one of their own.

On top of that, despite their thinning ranks and missing leader, things seemed to have gotten busier than ever in camp even with the Colorless Guard defeated and scattered. By now it was an open secret that the Blues were in charge and as a consequence the Red Division was stuck doing multiple drills a day and double patrols around the walls, trips into town rarely granted and leave a thing of the past. Yata hadn't been able to even see Anna in weeks and he couldn't help but worry a little, about how she was doing all on her own.

And then there was Saruhiko. There was always Saruhiko, and Yata bit his lip hard.

They didn't spar anymore, not even in the mixed training. Yata had expected to see him waiting, that first session after Mikoto's death, but Saruhiko had been nowhere to be seen and no one had even made so much as a mention of his absence. Instead Yata had found himself paired first with one Blue and then another, and it hadn't even mattered because they all fought in the same stiff practiced manner that was too slow and too easy to read, not at all like Saruhiko's wild but effective moves. Even worse was the fact that the Blues were all too stupidly 'honorable' to go for his left side, concentrating their attacks where Yata could easily see and deflect. That somehow pissed Yata off more than anything else, his mind unable to stop thinking that they saw him as disadvantaged somehow, as _less._ Saruhiko was an asshole traitor but at least he never cared that Yata only had one eye, hell, on the contrary he always seemed to almost relish in _reminding_ Yata of that fact. 

Saruhiko was never in training though, not anymore. Every now and again Yata spotted him from a distance, usually either entering or leaving camp despite the fact that they were supposed to be on lockdown. Sometimes their eyes would meet for just a moment and part of Yata would ache to reach out to him, to call his name, and every time he swallowed the impulse down and turned away.

Yata's head ached again and he rolled over, blankets falling back as he stared up at the bottom of the empty bunk above his, one hand held above his head. Everything felt so much like an empty echo now and it _hurt,_ having only that hollowness left where once was home. The hand that couldn't hold onto Megumi, couldn't hold onto Totsuka or Mikoto, couldn't hold onto _Saruhiko..._ Yata clenched a fist and flopped over onto his side with a curse. It was stupid, all of it. None of the Blue Captain's pointless training was going to make any difference anyway, not where it would count.

The door creaked slightly from somewhere behind him and Yata didn't even so much as turn to look towards the sound.

“I said to leave me alone, Kamamoto!” It was getting seriously annoying the way that guy kept bothering him constantly, ever since Mikoto's funeral. Sure, Yata knew that maybe he hadn't been quite himself recently but still...with everything that had happened, Yata couldn't help but think he'd earned the right to want to be alone for a while.

There was the sharp sound of marching boots on the concrete floor, and Yata groaned as he sat up.

“Kamamoto, I _said--_ ”

The footsteps stilled and Yata was about to lie back down when he heard the soft _click_ of a pistol being cocked. Yata's head shot up, entire body freezing for a moment as he stared blankly at the gun pointed directly at his face – and the one holding it, an unfamiliar figure dressed in black clothes lined in green, faced covered entirely by an inhuman black mask.

_The Green Army._

The world seemed to narrow on the barrel of the gun and dimly Yata knew that he needed to move, needed to run, but his mind was scrambling backwards to a cooler night, the musty smell of the dorms suddenly replaced by wet grass, the image of a tower blotting out the sky above and his gaze resting on Saruhiko clutching at his hand, followed by the sound of a gunshot--

_A gunshot, and pain over his left eye--_

The memory reverberated like the tolling of a bell in his mind and it was only instinct and the sudden rush of panic that made Yata move as the gun in front of him fired. There was a slight sting pain along one side of his forehead even as his leg swept out, automatic, and the Green soldier stumbled and fell hard to the ground. Yata was on him in a second, grappling for the gun, dodging punches and kicks aimed so close to his left side – so close and yet so _slow,_ Saruhiko was far faster than this and the realization made Yata's mouth twist in a bitter smile. His hand closed over the gun and rather than aim or shoot he slammed it upwards instead, catching the enemy soldier just below the jaw in a glancing blow that caused the other man to collapse in a heap at his feet.

“What the hell?!” Yata's heartbeat was racing as he stared at the gun in his hand, mind still trying to catch up and his breathing fast and shallow. He touched one hand to his forehead and felt blood on his fingers, a graze from the bullet that had been intended to go straight through his head.

_One of the Greens got into camp. How the hell did a Green make it into our camp?_ Yata tried to slow his breathing, tried to analyze the situation in front of him the way he knew Saruhiko would. A member of the Green army had gotten past their walls and infiltrated their camp, infiltrated it so deeply that they'd even made it all the way into Homra's barracks. And if they could get into Homra's barracks...

“Yata-san!” The door slammed open and Yata immediately raised the gun, finger on the trigger and entire body tensed to fire. His mind registered what he was seeing a moment later as Kamamoto skidded to a halt in front of him, hands up in a motion of surrender and breathing hard. 

“Kamamoto!” Yata lowered the gun, feeling a wave of undeniable relief flow through him. “What the hell's going on? I caught this asshole in our barracks, he's one of--”

“They're attacking the entire camp!” Kamamoto's voice was breathless as he grabbed Yata by the arm. “Yata-san, we have to get out of here!”

“No fucking way!” Yata said immediately. “We can't just retreat because a few Greens made it past the walls, we have to--”  


“They're in the town too,” Kamamoto said. His eyes were wide and haunted and Yata felt a shiver of something like fear run through him. “It's not just a few soldiers, Yata-san, it's an entire division! No one knows what happened to the guys guarding the walls, the gate's wide open and...” He shook his head. “Kusanagi-san says we need to retreat and regroup before everyone gets killed.”

“I'm not running like some coward!” Yata snapped. “This is _our_ base, we're not just gonna give it up to the fucking _Greens!”_

“There's no time, Yata-san.” Kamamoto tugged his arm again. “Kusanagi-san wanted me to get everyone, we're gonna meet back up at the emergency rendezvous point. It's not safe here anymore!”

“I don't care, I'm not--” Yata stopped, his mind suddenly processing the rest of what Kamamoto had said. “W-wait, you said they're in the town too?”

“The Blues who went down to do the supply run barely made it back,” Kamamoto said. “There's not anything we can do for the town now though, it's too--”

“What about Anna?” Yata's palm ached suddenly, his palm and his back and the tips of his fingers, and he knew from the way that Kamamoto paled that no one else had even thought about her until this moment. Yata's face hardened and without a word he pushed past Kamamoto towards the door.

“Yata-san, wait!”

“I'm going to get Anna!” Yata yelled back to him. “I'll meet you at the emergency spot, okay?”

“Yata-san!” Kamamoto's voice followed him out the door but Yata didn't stop running, adrenaline sparking in his veins as he stumbled outside into the middle of battlefield.

The base was already in chaos – figures clothed in Green with masks covering their faces streaming in from what seemed like every corner, flames brightening the air as one the buildings in the distance burned, cries of pain as the rest of their own soldiers desperately tried to hold the enemy back. Over the din of battle and the roaring of his own blood in his ears Yata could almost make out the Blue Captain's deep voice echoing over the camp, shouting orders in urgent but steady tones, and Yata ignored the sound. He only followed one Captain, after all, and it sure as hell wasn't the Blue Captain.

“Yata-chan!” Yata immediately looked up, staring around blankly for a moment as he tried to orient himself again. He could just spot Kusanagi a few feet away, engaged in battle with an enemy soldier. “You need to go--”

“I'm going into town for Anna!” It wasn't the choice of action he should be making, Yata knew that. He was a soldier, after all, and they'd already given up the town as lost. But there was still that emptiness lingering just to one side and he knew that it would only grow deeper, if he didn't go – just another person lost to darkness, and he wouldn't let it happen, not this time.

Kusanagi broke free of his attacker for just a moment, leg sweeping out to knock the Green soldier off his feet and then taking his opponent out with a single gunshot. He sighed, wiping the sweat and blood from his face before looking up at Yata with a weary smile.

“Right. You know where the meeting place is?”

“Y-yeah.” Yata nodded, swallowing hard, and Kusanagi gestured for him to go. “Thanks, Kusanagi-san.”

The gates were undefended and hanging open when Yata reached them, no sign of the soldiers that Yata knew should have been there defending the walls. The sight was enough to make him pause for a moment, glancing back at the chaos behind him. The Blues were doing what they could but it was clear that they were sorely outnumbered and Yata couldn't help but think that if only the Red Division had been left intact this wouldn't have happened, that they could have stopped it somehow. There was no way the Blues could hold the camp alone and Yata found himself almost wanting to turn back, to do _something_ to defend the place that had been his home for the last few years.

“No.” Yata didn't even realize he'd spoken out loud until he heard his own voice, gritting his teeth as he turned away from camp and set off at a run for Shizume. He'd decided it, hadn't he? There was something more important for him to do.

He might not have been able to save anyone else, but this, time, at least, he could still save Anna.

The moment he stepped into town Yata found his breath choking in his throat, nearly falling to his knees as he was hit by a wave of memories – soldiers in the streets while the townspeople tried their best to escape even though the town was already lost, the air filled with the sound of screaming and marching feet. Through the haze threatening to overtake his mind Yata could just make out a handful of Blues trying to restore order and evacuate the civilians but there weren't nearly enough of them to make any difference. Any minute now he knew he would hear it, planes overhead and the sound of bombs falling, followed by the smell of a field on fire...

“Look _out,_ you moron!” There was a sharp yell from behind him, accompanied by the sound of firing gun and Yata's head shot up in alarm. He whirled just in time to see the Green soldier that had been approaching him from behind crumple into a pool of blood on the ground and Yata's entire body felt dazed and lost for a moment as he raised his head to face his rescuer.

“Saruhiko...” 

Yata could barely get his voice to work, his heart still pounding as he realized what had just happened. 

“Pay attention to what's going on around you, Misaki.” Saruhiko looked utterly ragged, blood streaked across his uniform and his face. His voice was as cold as ever and there was a hardness in his gaze that made Yata feel even more confused, as if he had stepped into the middle of a play and wasn't certain of his next line. 

_Saruhiko saved me._ It was undeniable though, as clear as the body lying in the pool of blood at his feet. _Saruhiko just saved my life._

Saruhiko didn't bother to give him time to recover, already turning away, and Yata found himself instinctively moving to follow, hands reaching out – the need he'd thought that he'd buried at last that day in the snow when he'd lost Mikoto, the desire to hold onto that hand that had always fit so perfectly in his, as if it belonged there.

“Saruhiko, wait!” Yata called after him, hating the desperate note in his voice but unable to stop it either. Saruhiko didn't even pause, disappearing back into the crowd without so much as a look back, and Yata stared after him for a long moment before letting his hands fall back to his sides.

He could think about this later, when there wasn't smoke in the air and blood in the streets. He still had a mission to complete and he couldn't let anything, not even Saruhiko, distract him from it.

As soon as Yata came within sight of the familiar red stone house he felt his throat go dry. The door had been kicked in and the windows were broken, the flowers that he'd seen Anna and Totsuka plant what seemed like years ago overturned in their pots and trampled on. Yata steeled himself and pulled out his pistol as he carefully stepped inside.

The interior of the house was a mess as well, furniture overturned, books and clothes scattered everywhere. Yata couldn't stop the shudder that ran through him, his footsteps seeming to echo eerily in the unnatural silence of the destroyed house. 

“Anna?” Yata attempted, trying to force away the dark thoughts already threatening to creep into his mind. 

_What if I'm too late? What if--_

“...Misaki?” The reply was so quiet he almost didn't hear it and Yata whirled around, scanning the wreckage of furniture for any sign of movement. There was the creak of a door opening and he could just see a few strands of white hair poke out from behind the door of an overturned closet.

“Anna!” Relief flooded through him and Yata put away his pistol as he quickly ran over, carefully propping up the closet as best he could. Anna was huddled in the corner, her dress torn and her white hair covered in soot. Her eyes were wide and dark. “Are you all right? You're not hurt?”

“No.” Anna shook her head and he took her carefully by the hand, helping her to her feet. Anna swayed for only a moment before steadying herself, her hand seeming to tremble slightly in Yata's. “The soldiers didn't see me. The maid is gone, though.” Her face lowered and Yata squeezed her hand a little, trying to give her a comforting smile.

“Don't worry, okay? I'm gonna get you out of here.” Yata swallowed hard, trying to keep the shake from his voice. “I'm gonna get you out of here, so...so don't let go of my hand, okay?”

Anna looked up at him, something searching in her gaze as her eyes met his, and Yata forced himself to remain steady, determined not to falter in the face of that gaze. Anna seemed to relax, a small smile creeping its way onto her face.

“All right. I'll hold on to Misaki.” She squeezed his hand back and Yata nodded.

“Stick close to me. Oh, and put this on, okay? It'll help hide you.” Yata pulled off his uniform jacket, draping it over Anna's head – the only way he could think of to hide her light hair and pale skin that would stand out like a beacon in the sea of dark-clothed soldiers waiting outside the door. 

There were still soldiers everywhere outside but it seemed like most of the fighting was beginning to subside, only a few Blue soldiers remaining to hold out against the Greens. There was no sign of Saruhiko and Yata forced himself to focus on leading Anna out of town. There would be time to think about Saruhiko later, about whatever the hell there was between them. Escape was the priority now. He'd been to Shizume enough that he knew the layout of the city pretty well. They would need to keep to the side streets and the going would be slow, but there was still time to get out.

“We gotta stay quiet, all right, Anna?” Yata murmured and Anna squeezed his hand again in reply. A few soldiers ran by but no one seemed to have noticed them and without any more hesitation Yata set off as fast as he could towards the town gates, Anna just a step behind him.

Their escape from town was slow and painstaking, Yata's heart beating so fast he thought he might faint. Neither one of them spoke, Anna keeping close to Yata's side as he carefully navigated the alleys and back streets of Shizume, trying to avoid the soldiers as much as possible. It seemed like every time they came close to the gate there would be the familiar sound of marching feet and ominous shadows on the walls and then Yata would have to turn down another street, make another wide detour, and his hand was gripping Anna's so tight he wondered if he was hurting her. Anna didn't say a thing to him though, only stared at him with trusting eyes as he led her down blind alleys and winding turns.

“Misaki.” Anna tugged on his sleeve suddenly and Yata skidded to a stop. He'd been so lost in thought that he hadn't even noticed the shadows of approaching soldiers, and Yata swore under his breath as he dragged Anna into the closest alley, crouching down and melting as best they could into the shadows.

The air felt cold around him and Yata could almost laugh for the familiarity of it, the sudden reminder of that day so long ago with Saruhiko pressed up against him, that fast heartbeat in his ears and the space between them that Yata never had managed to bring himself to cross.

_If I don't get out of here, I guess I really will never know what the fuck you've been thinking all this time, will I, Saruhiko?_ It was hard not to think of it, what would happen if they didn't make it out. He wondered if Saruhiko would even care, hearing that Yata had been left behind in the chaos of the town, or if he would just click his tongue and call Yata an idiot for choosing a solo mission all on his own accord.

Yata felt a small laugh trying to escape out of his throat and swallowed it down, wondering why his chest felt tight all of a sudden. The soldiers seemed to be moving closer and Yata found himself glancing back down at Anna, huddled against the ground with Yata's jacket thrown over her. 

_Anna's smart, right?_ His mind was running away with a million possibilities and Yata wondered if this was what being Saruhiko felt like, so many thoughts that he couldn't grab onto just one at once. _If I distract the soldiers she could get away on her own. If she can get out of the town she'll be safe at least and..._

“Misaki. Wait.” Anna's hand tightened on his and Yata realized that he had half risen as if to step out of the shadows that hid them.

“Anna...” Yata swallowed hard. “Anna, let me--”

“No.” Anna shook her head. “Misaki said not to let go, right?”

She looked down significantly at the hand still tightly entwined with her own, and Yata sank back down to his knees with a shaky smile.

“R-right. You're right.” He couldn't explain the relief that flooded through him then, but somehow the tension in Yata's chest finally seemed to ease. “We're in this together, aren't we?”

“Mmm.” Anna placed her other land lightly on top of his, looking up at him with a piercing gaze, and Yata took a steadying breath. The sound of footsteps had gone quiet and they were alone in the shadows, still together, still alive. Yata waited a moment to be sure the soldiers had gone before rising again, helping Anna to her feet.

“Let's get out of here.”

The sky was already growing dark by the time they finally slipped out the gates and into open fields. Part of Yata longed to go back to the base, to see what was left of it, but he'd promised Kusanagi that he would go to the emergency rendezvous point and Kusanagi wouldn't forgive him if he put Anna in danger again, not after all this. 

The emergency rendezvous point was several miles out from camp so Yata found an empty clearing and let Anna rest a bit there before continuing on. By the time Anna was ready to start walking again it was nearly nightfall, the sky painted all in reds and blacks with the setting of the sun, but Yata figured that, at least, was in their favor – it would be hard to catch enemies trying to sneak up on them, of course, but it would make any pursuit more difficult too. Anna's steps were weary but her grip on his hand remained strong as they walked side by side along the small dirt road leading away from camp, the full moon the only thing lighting their path forward.

The sky had begun to lighten again and Anna was half-asleep on Yata's back by the time he spotted the rickety silhouette of the emergency point. It was ostensibly a minor trading post, lightly staffed and rather old, and not even noted on any of their maps back at camp. Instead the location was to be committed to memory, and Yata could recall many long nights sitting up late with Saruhiko by his side drilling the location into his head until it was impossible for him to forget. There was no sign of life whatsoever surrounding it and Yata felt a sudden rush of fear. What if nobody else had made it here at all? Or they _had_ and they'd been followed somehow and had to move on, find somewhere else to rest and regroup and there would be no way of finding Kusanagi and the others.

“Who goes there?” A sharp voice made him start and Anna stirred on his back. Yata was suddenly aware of the vulnerable position he was in, unable to reach his weapon with Anna riding piggyback. A moment later two men came into view, weapons at the ready and wary expressions on their faces. They both wore blue armbands and Yata felt himself relax slightly as he recognized the two soldiers from the mixed training – part of the Blue Division's special unit, and Saruhiko's subordinates.

“Yata Misaki of the Red Division,” Yata recited quickly. The two Blues exchanged glances and one of them turned his gaze towards Anna, who was staring at them sleepily from over Yata's shoulder.

“You're late, Red Soldier,” one of the men noted. “Who's that with you?”

“Is that a civilian?” the second Blue added. 

“Yeah, and she's tired so let us in already,” Yata said, irritated. The Blues kept their weapons raised.

“How do we know you weren't followed? Who's your direct superior?”

“I don't have to answer to you guys,” Yata snapped. He hadn't walked all night just to get the third degree from some stupid asshole Blues who didn't know when to quit. 

“You do if you want to get in here,” the first Blue said. “Now--”

“Yata-san!” Kamamoto's voice broke in and Yata thought that he'd never been more thankful to hear it than right at that moment. A moment later Kamamoto appeared from the doorway, looking a bit harried but otherwise no worse for the wear. “And Anna, too. You saved her, Yata-san!”

“Yup,” Yata said proudly as Anna slid carefully off his back onto the ground. “But anyway, Kamamoto! What the hell's going on?”

“Sorry, Yata-san.” Kamamoto shook his head. “Kusanagi-san's got everyone resting right now. We were just talking about sending someone out after you, it's a good thing you made it when you did!”

“Of course you Reds are resting,” one of the Blue soldiers scoffed, holstering his pistol as he and his partner turned to go back to their posts. “As little help as you were when the Greens took over.”

“What was that, asshole?” Yata snapped and Kamamoto tried to step between them. 

“Calm down, Yata-san. Listen, we need to--”

“What the hell, 'calm down?' Did you hear what those guys said?” Yata grumbled as Kamamoto led him and Anna inside. Anna gazed around at everything with a wide-eyed stare and Kamamoto patted her shoulder. 

“They lost a lot of people,” Kamamoto said, looking grave. “But with the lockdown and everything, most of our guys weren't even at camp when it happened. Homra's here, though! We all made it out...it's just those guys had to do most of the covering our backs.” He looked uneasy for a moment. “Er..and Yata-san, there's also been some problems with other things, you got here just in time...”

“We need to take Shizume back,” Yata said, ignoring him. “We can't just let those Green assholes get away with this! We shouldn't be hiding like this, we need to strike back!”

“We can't do much right now, Yata-san,” Kamamoto tried to calm him down. “But anyway, what I was saying, Fushimi is--”

“Saruhiko?” Yata stopped. The unidentified worry that had been hovering on the edge of his mind suddenly seemed to take form and Yata felt himself relax just a bit. “So he made it out too.”

“Ah, well, Yata-san...” Kamamoto trailed off at the sound of raised voices, looking at Yata helplessly as Yata's head shot up in recognition.

It felt like it had been a long time since he'd really heard Saruhiko _yell_ – Saruhiko's voice had always seemed so quiet to him, gloomy and hushed, and even after Saruhiko had left Homra and the dullness had been replaced with something colder an actual raised voice was still rare. The sound of it made his legs stride forward on their own, weariness forgotten, ignoring Kamamoto's call for him to stop and Anna pulling on the edge of his shirt as he ran forward towards the sound of Saruhiko's voice.

Always towards the sound of Saruhiko's voice, towards the place where Saruhiko was, no matter how often he tried to stop himself.

“If you're going to be this pathetic, then I'm done.” There was a small crowd blocking his view and Yata had to shove his way past a few Blues in order to get a glimpse of what was happening. Saruhiko stood in the foyer in front of an open door, his clothes torn and still stained with blood and soot. The Captain of the Blue Division was in the doorway opposite him, leaning just slightly on the doorjamb, coat open enough to give a clear view of the bandages wrapped around his torso. Nonetheless the eyes that stared down at Saruhiko were cold and steady, and Yata felt something tight clench around his heart and squeeze.

“Leave, then.” The Blue Captain's voice was utterly dismissive and unaffected, and yet even so Saruhiko cringed back slightly as if those words had been a blow to his face instead. “If my leadership is unacceptable to you, Fushimi-kun, then I believe I have equally less need for you as a subordinate. One who cannot follow orders in an army is more a burden than anything.”

“Is that so?” There was a tuneless quality to Saruhiko's voice, the usual taunting lilt broken in two and the pieces scattering along the floor. Yata felt the sudden need to see him, to reach for him, and he pushed his way through the crowd towards where Saruhiko stood. “Ah, but what use is a follower anyway, if the leader is no good? Look where your _orders_ have led us, _Captain.”_ Heavy with mockery, and Saruhiko's lip curled. “This is all the result of allowing _that man_ free rein of camp. If Suoh Mikoto and his _traitorous_ companions had been properly secured and contained none of this would have happened. The Red Division was meant to be fodder, so that those of us with sharper senses could keep a better eye on our own security.”

A rustle of unrest in the crowd – Yata wasn't the only Red Division member present, and he heard a voice that he recognized as Bandou yell something angry in Saruhiko's direction. For Yata's part he felt as though those words should have sent a fire burning through his veins, the usual hot rush of anger at what Saruhiko had become and what Saruhiko dared to insinuate about the man who had saved both their lives, but somehow all he could feel was a sudden bone-deep chill.

“I see. How easily you turn on those who do not live up to your expectations, Fushimi-kun.” Munakata gave a slight laugh. “But then, I have expected this much of _you_ from the beginning. You run from place to place in search of someone who will live up to your ideals when in truth you have none. You simply fear your own failure and your own inability to shape yourself in places where you will never fit.” Saruhiko's hands clenched and Yata pushed through the crowd with renewed energy, dread settling low in the pit of his stomach. “Indeed, the Red Division has defied the ideals of this camp but no more than you yourself did first. You allowed Suoh Mikoto to walk away without any attempt at stopping him, did you not? If you disagreed so violently with my orders I would expect you to be able to carry out your own. I suppose I have placed too much faith in one who cannot bear it.”

“As though your orders have led us to anything but humiliating defeat anyway.” Saruhiko's voice was tight and there was a tension to his whole body that reminded Yata of a cat puffing itself up moments before fleeing from a more powerful enemy. “I'm finished with being your pet errand boy. Don't expect me to follow your orders again unless they actually mean something.”

“If that is what you wish, then you are free to leave this camp.” Munakata turned away from Fushimi as if dismissing him. “I would expect nothing less of one bearing your name.” Saruhiko started and Munakata glanced back at him. “Oh? I imagine you thought I was unaware. No, I would not extend my hand to any stray beast without a thorough investigation first. Crawling in the dirt towards whichever way the wind blows is what you were made for, is it not? So by all means, leave my side. Perhaps Hisui Nagare's bloodlust will be kinder to you.”

With that Munakata strode back through the door and let it close behind him. Yata could see Saruhiko shaking slightly where he stood, as if balancing on the edge of a cliff.

“Fushimi-san...” One of the Blue soldiers stepped towards him and that seemed to break the spell. Saruhiko gave a low hiss of irritation and whirled on his heel, shoving his way through the crowd. His thin shoulder banged hard against Yata as he went past but Saruhiko didn't so much as look at Yata as he made his way towards the entrance.

“Saruhiko, wait!” Yata felt the words torn from his mouth but Saruhiko didn't turn around, didn't even pause. Yata swore quietly and ran after him, ignoring the sound of Kamamoto's voice calling his name behind him.

Saruhiko was already outside by the time Yata caught sight of him again, steps weaving but somehow filled with purpose as he strode across the shadowed fields, body barely illuminated by the light of the rising sun and Yata had the sudden wild thought that if he dared turn his eyes away Saruhiko would melt into the blood red clouds clustering on the horizon and be gone, forever.

“Saruhiko!” One of Yata's hands reached out and Saruhiko's pace seemed to quicken. “Dammit, Saruhiko, wait a sec!”

“Get out of here, Misaki.” Saruhiko stopped but didn't turn around. “Don't you need to get back to your precious _comrades?”_

“Don't give me that shit, Saruhiko.” Yata grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him around roughly so that they stood face to face. “What the hell do you think you're doing? Your Captain--”

“Is an idiot who got our camp overrun and almost led to all of us being killed,” Saruhiko said coldly. His head was angled downward, expression hidden in the shadows of his hair. “I don't intend to follow a failure into hell, Misaki.” He shook slightly and it took Yata a moment to realize that Saruhiko was laughing. Saruhiko raised his head, sun shining fever-bright in his eyes, and his smile torn and twisted. “We can't all be morons like Homra, after all.”

“Saruhiko, you _bastard--”_ There was still the sick chill in Yata's stomach warring with anger and something deeper, something he couldn't quite grasp. His hands clenched around the fabric of Saruhiko's uniform. “You can't just....we need to go _back,_ you idiot! Do you want to get picked up by the Greens?”

“ _Yes._ ” It was the answer Yata half-knew was coming and had hoped wasn't. Yata felt his body moving almost without his own will behind it, pushing Saruhiko forward beneath him. There was a shallow ditch just behind them, filled dark with rainwater, and Saruhiko's head fell back into the water as Yata dragged him down.

“Do you even know what you're saying?!” The words were half a scream torn from Yata's throat and his entire body felt frozen to the bone, everything except his hands that closed almost on their own just above Saruhiko's neck. Saruhiko's normally cold skin felt flushed and warm beneath Yata's fingers and he angled his head back as if to urge Yata on.

“I do.” There was no shake at all in Saruhiko's voice, no hesitation, and it only made Yata more aware of the ruins of his own voice. “I've had enough of these children's games, Misaki. You heard what the Captain said. This is what I've always been made for, right from the start – to find the winning side of the war and to burrow my way into it.”

“That's bullshit and you know it,” Yata said. His hands felt clammy around Saruhiko's skin and he wanted to let go but Saruhiko's own gloved hands reached up to grasp Yata's wrists, holding him in place. Dimly Yata could feel the beat of Saruhiko's pulse beneath his hands and he knew that all he had to do was tighten his grip just a bit, put in just a little more strength, and he could cut that thread off forever. Yata thought he might throw up. “Weren't—weren't we going to take those asshole Greens down together? Weren't you the one who said--”

“And you believed it too.” Fushimi laughed, the back of his head submerged by water, pulse fluttering. “So naïve, Misaki. So gullible. I would have said anything then, you know, to see the stupid look on your face as you believed every little story that came out of my mouth. It was fun then, but we aren't kids anymore. I've had enough of these games.”

“Shut up!” Yata's hands tightened on Saruhiko's throat just a little, involuntarily, and Saruhiko smiled up at him. One hand reached up, brushed against the patch covering Yata's left eye.

“That's your problem, Misaki,” Saruhiko murmured, dreamlike. “You give everything away too freely, as if opening those hands will keep people from letting go of you. That's why you lose things, again and again. You need to learn to tighten your grip.”

“Saruhiko...” Yata's hands went slack on Saruhiko's throat then and he fell backwards, face wet. “Stay here, okay? We can---I'm sure we can--”

“Still too weak, Misaki.” Saruhiko clicked his tongue and stood slowly, body unfolding stiff and fragile, bones snapping into place. His hand touched Yata's eyepatch again, a hairsbreadth away from Yata's cheek, body kept carefully out of Yata's line of vision. “That's why this has to happen, you know.” He began to walk away slowly, steps oddly heavy, and Yata couldn't get himself to stand and follow. “When you find your way to your own feet, come and chase me. I'll be waiting.”

Yata felt as though there was some answer he should have been able to give, something he should be able to do, but he couldn't even find the strength to raise his arms and grab Saruhiko by the hand again, couldn't get himself to make Saruhiko stop and stay.

Saruhiko's figure melted into the horizon and then Yata was alone, collapsed on his knees in the dirt, and with a sudden burst of anger Yata punched the ground hard with a fist.

“Saruhiko...you—you _traitor...”_

Nobody replied and Yata pulled his fists up close, lowering his head into his hands.

“...Don't go without me again, you idiot...”

The wind blew past him, and no one answered.


	9. the piece of yourself that you gave long ago

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wild update appears~

_XV. slit throat_

Fushimi woke up with the tip of a sword at his throat.

It had been two months since he'd left the United Colors – two months of living like a scavenger off a larger animal's kill, doing what he could to assist the Green army as they continued to swallow up the country in bits and pieces. He'd been lucky enough to fall in with a mercenary currently under Hisui's employ, a woman who had no problem sharing her work with him provided she was given the proper payment in the end. Fushimi hadn't cared much about that – enough to live on was all he asked, no need for monetary payments when all he was after was glory, recognition, anything that might help get the attention of Hisui Nagare. 

That being his objective, Fushimi supposed he should have felt something like relief when he was awakened in his hotel room in a newly-occupied town by Mishakuji Yukari leaning over him with a smile dangerous enough that Fushimi found his hands instinctively reaching for his weapons.

Not that it would matter, he supposed. He'd heard about Yukari, Hisui Nagare's right hand man. It was easy to tell at a glance that Yukari was far quicker and more skilled than he was, and even if Fushimi managed to grab a knife there would be no time to throw it before Yukari cut his throat.

“I assume you're here to kill me.” His own voice sounded remarkably calm for someone with a sword at his neck and in another situation Fushimi thought he might have laughed about it. Yukari smiled and pressed the blade just a bit closer, enough to draw a thin line of blood that dripped wet and sticky down Fushimi's neck.

“Of course not.” In a single smooth motion Yukari suddenly sheathed his sword, holding out one gloved hand to Fushimi. “I hear you've done a lot of work for our General's cause, Saruhiko-chan. I'm here to bring you your reward.”

“I didn't ask for a reward.” Fushimi eyed the offered hand warily, still not moving. The moonlight reflected off the smile on Yukari's face, a snake offering its friendship, and Fushimi knew better than to trust in such things.

_(He'd always known better, and yet he'd ended up here all the same.)_

“Ah, but I'm certain you hoped for it,” Yukari replied. “Nagare-chan wishes to meet with you, Saruhiko-chan. That's impressive, isn't it?”

Fushimi's heart beat suddenly heavy against his chest and he feigned disinterest as he got to his feet on his own, ignoring Yukari's hand.

“I guess.” Fushimi shrugged, eying Yukari warily. “I would have expected him to come himself, if he was that interested.”

“Would you really?” Yukari's voice sounded genuinely curious but there was steel in his eyes, a blade disguised as a flower, and Fushimi kept his gaze steady and cold. “I suppose you'll have to settle for me as your welcoming committee. Unless you'd rather stay here, of course.”

“I'll come.” Fushimi shrugged again and gestured for Yukari to lead the way.

“Oh? Don't you have to pack your things?” Yukari said mildly. Fushimi cast a glance around the room, sparse and empty, and he couldn't help but laugh a bit to himself.

“This is enough.” Fushimi touched a hand against one of the pistols still holstered at his hip. “So? Are we going to talk about this all night?”

“Come along, then.” Yukari seemed amused by his response and made his way out the door without even bothering to glance back to see if Fushimi had followed. 

The town was still and silent as they walked along streets lit only by a handful of flickering lamps. The telltale evidence of gunpowder and dried blood was still visible on the pavement, the Greens having only just occupied the town some two days prior with Fushimi's assistance. There were a handful of Green soldiers out patrolling who nodded and saluted at Yukari as they went by, clearly recognizing him even in the darkness. 

“You have a car?” Fushimi asked as they neared the town gates. “Or are we walking all the way to your general?” He couldn't quite keep the displeasure out of his voice at the thought.

“Certainly not. How vulgar.” Yukari smirked slightly. “I came by plane.”

Fushimi managed to keep himself from showing any reaction to that. Planes were hard to come by in the United Armies – rumor had it there were a few at Mihashira, belonging to the Silver General and his men, but Shizume had been home to only one: a rusty modified crop duster that was only used in emergencies. Fushimi had been up in it exactly once, with Doumyoji at the helm, and he'd barely made it back to the ground before throwing up. 

He noted that Yukari's plane looked at least somewhat safer, once they reached the spot where Yukari had left it on the flat grass just outside the town. It looked considerably newer and better maintained than the one Fushimi had been in and Yukari didn't hesitate at all as he climbed into the pilot's seat.

“My, Saruhiko-chan, you look so pale. Have you never flown before?” Yukari seemed amused by his expression and so Fushimi carefully masked it with indifference, swallowing down the bile that had already begun to creep its way up his throat.

He had come too far now to be defeated by a little nausea. Without another word Fushimi forced down the wave of dizziness and climbed into the plane.

“The trip should be short,” Yukari said conversationally as he began to start the plane. “Still, I would advise you to buckle yourself in. Nagare-chan would be displeased if I lost you so soon. He is very interested in meeting you, after all.” There was something like laughter in his eyes and Fushimi just clicked his tongue and looked away, buckling his seat belt and his hands white gripping the edge of the plane as the engine sputtered to life.

The ascent into the sky was quicker than expected, wind whistling by Fushimi's ears as they rose up into the clouds. Looking down he could just make out the landscape below, small lights indicating towns and farmland that dotted the ground like constructs in a child's diorama. It was a like a living map, destinations laid out end upon end without any markings between, and Fushimi swallowed hard.

Yukari glanced at him but made no comment, focused on his flying and probably unable to be heard over the roar of the engine regardless. Fushimi kept his head turned away and tried to keep his breathing steady.

Somewhere dimly in the back of his mind he could still hear Misaki's voice, could still see those eyes shining back at him from the window seat of a train.

“ _Saruhiko, look! You can see everything out there. Hey, look at that! Saruhiko, are you looking?”_

That idiot had gotten so excited over a simple train ride. Fushimi felt something hot and painful well up in his chest and his hand reached up on conditioned reflex, scratching his scars. He tried not to think about how Misaki would no doubt have been even more thrilled by this, flying through the night sky with the moon shining above.

“ _Stay here, okay?”_ The memory of Misaki's face from that cold morning that seemed so long ago now wouldn't leave his mind. Misaki's eyes shining with reflected light from the rising sun and from unshed tears, hands around Fushimi's throat but too weak to tighten.

There hadn't been anything he could've said at that time anyway. Fushimi closed his eyes, took another steadying breath. It was a secret mission, after all. He and Munakata had discussed it thoroughly shortly before base camp had been attacked, contingencies upon contingencies. That was always how Munakata worked, Fushimi knew that. It hadn't been much of a surprise that the Captain had made the suggestion that if the situation turned too dire Fushimi would try his hand at infiltration, joining the Green army and waiting to take them apart from the inside.

He'd known that the dire situation had happened when he'd been unable to hold the city against the Green army’s attacks, had barely managed to get their own men out safely. Misaki's location had been unknown then, last seen running through town like an idiot for no apparent reason. At the time, exhausted and shaking in the trading post, trying to assess who had made it out and who hadn't, Fushimi had known deep down that the time for Munakata's plan had come.

_But still..._

Fushimi's hand dug into the wound on his chest again. His fingers felt cold even through his gloves and he could barely feel his face, the wind blowing chill around him. It reminded him of Munakata's humorless smile as he'd thrown Fushimi's fears back into his face, mocked the very trust that Munakata himself was placing in him.

In retrospect it was really no surprise that Munakata knew who his parents were, had no doubt known all along. Fushimi hadn't bothered to change his name, after all, and it wasn't as if _those people_ hadn't double-crossed the United Armies the same as they had the Greens. Munakata had probably known from the moment Totsuka led Fushimi and Yata into camp all those years ago, the viper's child that Suoh Mikoto had invited into their nest.

It was all an act, of course. They'd intended to fight, intended to have Fushimi walk away. But the words of the play had been entirely different from what they had rehearsed and the questioning voices in the back of Fushimi's head wouldn't be silent.

Maybe it would have been better if Misaki had been able to close those hands around his throat properly. Traitors would only betray again, and no matter what he told himself Fushimi knew that he would never be anything more than that, not to Misaki, not to Munakata, not to anybody. He wasn't a hero. He had not joined the army to be a hero.

He'd joined the army because doing so had made Misaki smile and he'd even lost that in the end. So was there really a point in continuing this farce, in risking his life for a cause he had never had any interest in whatsoever. Fushimi leaned his head back, eyes half-closed as he let the frigid wind bite into his skin.

“We're beginning our descent. Are you all right, Saruhiko-chan? No motion sickness?” Yukari's voice could barely be heard above the engine and Fushimi answered with only a nod, hands braced against his seat as the plane circled lower and lower towards the ground.

“I'm fine.” Fushimi kept his words short and clipped. Yukari didn't reply but he seemed to be smiling as he carefully maneuvered them onto the ground. Fushimi had no idea how Yukari had known where to land; the clearing they were in was completely sparse and dark. He unbuckled his seatbelt and nearly stumbled as he stepped out of the plane, legs shaking more than he'd expected.

“Do you need a hand?” It sounded outwardly polite but Fushimi could hear the challenge lying beneath those words and he took only a moment to steady himself before stepping past Yukari to take in their surroundings.

“Is this where Hisui Nagare is going to meet us?” Fushimi didn't bother to disguise the distaste in his voice.

“Of course not. Nagare-chan is waiting further in. Follow me.” Yukari began to walk away from the plane and Fushimi followed behind.

“You don't intend to blindfold me?” He'd expected some kind of security, some way of obscuring the route to wherever Hisui Nagare was hiding.

“Would you like me too?” Yukari waved a hand languidly. “You're our precious comrade, Saruhiko-chan. Or so Nagare-chan says, anyway. After all, if there's any danger from you after seeing our secret base, well...there are ways of dealing with that beyond a simple blindfold.” He smiled, sharp as a blade, and Fushimi clicked his tongue again.

They stepped through a small thicket of trees and then out into the shining lights of a town. Fushimi tried to keep his eyes trained on Yukari's figure in front of him but as they walked through the gates he realized that he knew _exactly_ where they were.

The Green General was hiding at Ashinaka.

Fushimi's mind was already racing as his eyes darted back and forth along the streets. Ashinaka had been taken by the Greens not long after he and Misaki had joined Homra, and he'd even been the one who had helped Kusanagi devise the strategy to take the town back. At the time he'd thought that the offensive had been ridiculously easy but he'd been infected by Homra's stupidity and had chalked it up to the inexperience of their enemies. Looking around at the town now, Fushimi could see that they were the ones who had been fooled.

Ashinaka was far along the edges of the United Army's territory. There was little remarkable about it, save the old university that took up a large spot of land in the center of the town. When Ashinaka had first been taken by the Greens Fushimi could remember Kusanagi saying how odd it had seemed, that they would focus on such a minor town that didn't even connect to the main railway line and had no large factories or refineries to speak of.

They'd left soldiers behind, of course, to keep an eye on things. Minor members of the rank and file, some Red and a few Blue Division members. They sent communication via radio to Shizume twice a week along with the rest of the troops stationed outside of camp. The communications were received by a member of the Blue Division, recorded on paper and given to Munakata. Communications duty rotated between members and it would have been easy to kill the men they'd left behind and use their equipment in order to impersonate them. Fushimi found himself wondering how long they'd been receiving communications from the Green army instead, under the guise of one of their own men.

A simple plan, now that he thought about it. What better way to disguise their home base than to allow it to be taken over by their own army and then won back by the enemy, assumed safe and left alone. Especially with the Colorless Guard making such bold movies elsewhere throughout the country, it would have been simple to retake a tiny little town in silence and secrecy, allowing the United Armies to assume Ashinaka was safe and still within their grasp when it was actually the den of the enemy.

“This way.” Yukari led him through an old wrought-iron gate into a courtyard overflowing with weeds.

“The university?” Fushimi murmured, eyes scanning the white brick building in front of him.

“Not quite.” Yukari was smiling again as he made his way to what looked like a small stone storage shed. He produced a key from his jacket and opened the iron door, revealing steps leading downward. Yukari took a lamp from beside the shed and began to walk down into the darkness, not bothering to look back to see if Fushimi had followed.

Fushimi took a step forward and then paused in the doorway, staring down. The stairs led to a what appeared to be some kind of underground tunnel that smelled of dirt and mold. It was illuminated by small pin lights along the wall and Fushimi could see places where pipes and vents stood out against the walls, allowing the air to circulate.

“Mining tunnels?” he murmured, almost to himself. 

“Very good, Saruhiko-chan.” Yukari replied anyway. “At one point it was thought that there might be a vein of precious metals running underneath the university building. When it turned out to be only worthless stones the project was abandoned. Most of the work had already been done. It only took a few months for Nagare-chan to complete the rest of it.”

That would explain why they'd never been able to find him. Fushimi found himself unable to move as Yukari took a few more steps down into the darkness before finally stopping to look back at him.

“My, do you intend to turn back now, Saruhiko-chan?” Yukari's tone was pleasant and friendly but it was easy for Fushimi to hear the cunning beneath it. “Are you afraid of the dark?”

Fushimi almost found himself wanting to laugh, fists clenching hard. He could already feel his breath coming in short gasps, a memory of smoke filling his lungs, and his vision was blurring into scattered black spots.

_Stupid._ Fushimi grimaced, forced himself to take a step forward. He'd come too far to be defeated by the old fear now. There were far more frightening things than what lay underground and he was more than aware of that. Even so, his heart beat fast as he followed Yukari down into the dark.

Yukari began walking again, footsteps echoing hollowly as he descended the stairs with Fushimi following as steadily as he could manage. His eyes had already gotten used to the low light but there was an itch to his skin, his breathing coming faint and thin even as he forced himself to remain steady. He was already at a disadvantage, that was clear. He would need to communicate the location of the tunnels to someone, somehow, but if his treachery was discovered while he was underground he would have no way of escaping retribution if caught.

Fushimi found himself smiling slightly. No matter. He'd always been good at finding the exit in the dark on his own. That was why Munakata had chosen him for this, after all. He only needed to keep digging until he found the right tunnel.

“After you.” Yukari stopped at a metal gate blocking the opening to a larger tunnel. The door was ajar and Yukari stood off to one side, giving Fushimi just enough room to pass in front of him. Fushimi reached for the door handle, too aware of Yukari's presence at his back. There was no going back now. He stepped inside.

The gate led to a large open room with a curved roof. Unlike the outer tunnels this room was brightly lit by lamps along the walls and the inside had been fashioned as a sort of messy living area. There was a long low table in the center of the room with the same map of country Fushimi recognized from Munakata's war room, the table itself surrounded by cushions. There were two figures seated on cushions on either side of the table and a man in a wheelchair in between them.

“Fushimi Saruhiko.” Hisui Nagare smiled up at him and extended a hand. “Welcome.”

“Hisui Nagare.” Fushimi's tone was flat as he replied. He was dimly aware of Yukari striding past him to stand beside Hisui's wheelchair but Fushimi's eyes were fixed on the man who he'd only heard spoken about in rumors and whispers. Hisui's demeanor was deceptively pleasant, with thin fine features and tousled hair. He looked almost boyish sitting there in the wheelchair, like someone's child injured by the war. There was a blanket covering the lower half of his body and Fushimi suspected that the legs beneath were either mangled or missing entirely – lost in a bomb explosion during Hisui's attempted assassination of the Golden General ten years ago.

“Wait a second, Nagare, _this_ is the guy?” The voice from Hisui's right made Fushimi's gaze shift and he raised an eyebrow in surprise at the speaker. It was a kid, maybe thirteen years old with light-colored hair, and there was something familiar about him that made a sudden shiver run through Fushimi's body, as if the rest of him was coming to a realization that his mind hadn't managed to grasp yet. “He's with the--”

“Now, now, Sukuna.” The man in black seated to Hisui's left waved a hand carelessly. There was a can of beer in his other hand and he looked like someone's drunk uncle who had wandered in on accident. “Saruhiko here has been helping us out the last month or so, you know?”

“But he's with those guys at Shizume!” Sukuna snapped, pointing a finger in Fushimi's direction. Something in Fushimi's mind seemed to snap into place and in that moment he knew what it was, where he'd seen that kid before.

The scrawny war orphan that Misaki had run into the day they'd first arrived in Shizume. 

Fushimi's mind was already working so fast he felt almost breathless, putting the pieces together. He had seen Sukuna multiple times after that first meeting and had never paid much mind to him, assuming no doubt like everyone else that the kid was just another brat made homeless by the war. A brat who was part of the Green army and had no doubt been spying on them all this time, using the same trick Fushimi himself had so long ago, in an occupied town when his only thought had been to keep himself and Misaki alive: running errands for the soldiers who all believed that he was just trying to survive and nothing more, foolishly giving up their own secrets without even realizing it.

It was so idiotically simple that Fushimi could have cursed himself for a fool if he hadn't been trying to keep his face impassive. Sukuna had no doubt been feeding information gleaned from soldiers in town for _years,_ completely unfettered and unnoticed. 

_(And it was easy, far too easy, to imagine Totsuka Tatara being summoned into a darkened alleyway to help a frightened child only to find himself ambushed and cornered by other spies Sukuna had already smuggled into town, killed by his own foolish kindness.)_

“I am aware of Saruhiko's former loyalties,” Hisui's calm voice broke into his thoughts and Fushimi swallowed down the anger building in his throat. Hisui's single visible eye rose to meet Fushimi's gaze and there was something dangerous in it that made Fushimi's blood freeze in his veins. “But anyone may join the Green army, if they wish to. I see you have seen the light of our cause at last.”

_What cause?_ Fushimi felt the caustic reply rise in his throat and he swallowed the answer down. From what he'd managed to grasp from past scuffles, the Green Army's only 'cause' was uniting the world under their own banner.

“I guess,” he said instead with a languid shrug. “The United Armies failed. I just...” He pulled a knife from his sleeve and flipped it around so that he was grasping the blade as he offered it hilt-first to Hisui. “I just thought that if this war has to come to an end sometime, I'd rather be on the winning side.”

“A wise choice.” Hisui took the knife and Fushimi noted how Sukuna tensed as Hisui's hands closed around the hilt of the blade. “You will not be disappointed, Saruhiko. It is only a select few we allow into the inner circle.”

“And we should keep it that way,” Sukuna muttered under his breath.

“Quiet now, Sukuna.” Hisui seemed to smile slightly as he spoke and Sukuna's eyes lit up at his general's words. “In any case, Saruhiko, allow me to introduce my companions. You have already met Yukari...”

“Welcome.” Yukari gave a small wave and a wink.

“And this is Sukuna. He is a relative of mine who has joined our cause from a young age.” Hisui nodded at Sukuna, who sat up a bit straighter.

“That's right.” Sukuna gave Fushimi a cold glare. “Some of us have been on the right side from the beginning, you know.”

“And this is Iwa-san.” Hisui nodded to the man at his right. “Commander of the Grey Division.”

“Iwafune Tenkei.” The man inclined his head in Fushimi's direction, taking a long sip of his beer.

“The Grey...” Another chill, another piece falling into place, and his mind was on fire again with half-forgotten memories. A black-gloved hand pushing closed the door of a burning factory. A sniper on a hill, the bullet that took Misaki's eye before Fushimi's own shot had ended the sniper's life.

And so many books, ones that Kusanagi had loaned him, reports Munakata had suggested he read, that had made mention of the Grey Division. The Grey Division had once been the section of the United Colors in charge of espionage – and occasionally assassination, from what Fushimi could tell reading between the lines – and was supposed to have been wiped out in the same explosion that had left Hisui in a wheelchair, innocent victims of a madman's ambition.

Innocent victims, or so it had been recorded. But the details of the attempted assassination were vague at best in every book he'd read and Fushimi wondered if anyone would have noticed, in the chaotic mess of the aftermath, if the bodies left behind were the entirety of the Grey Division or if they were only servants and civilians left behind to take their places while the soldiers themselves staged their own quiet defection.

“The existence of the Grey Division is of course a closely guarded secret,” Hisui continued. “We are placing a great deal of trust in you to say this much, Saruhiko.”

“Mmm.” Fushimi nodded distractedly, mind still racing. Hisui regarded him intently for a moment and then spoke again.

“Iwa-san, Sukuna, Yukari. If the three of you have duties to attend to, I would like to speak with Saruhiko alone for a time.”

“But that's--” Sukuna immediately tried to protest and was stopped by Yukari's hand on his shoulder.

“Sukuna-chan,” Yukari scolded lightly and Sukuna turned away with a huff. “I'm sure Nagare-chan will be fine alone. After all, an assassin would have great difficulty getting very far out of this place alive, if he was so foolish as to make an attempt.”

It was a warning, not that Fushimi hadn't already figured that one out. It didn't matter in any case: he didn't have any illusions about getting out of this place alive and he hadn't from the start. He could still remember the grave look on Munakata's face when he'd proposed the mission, something unexpectedly brittle in Munakata's smile as he'd noted that hopefully there would be no need for such a precaution anyway.

It all faded though, the memory indelibly linked to that _other_ memory of Munakata's cold and calculating smile as he'd thrown Fushimi's loyalty back in his face, the act that Fushimi still couldn't be certain if had really had been all that fake. Fushimi kept his face calm and his breathing steady as Hisui's companions emptied the room, leaving him alone with the Green General.

“Sit, Saruhiko.” Hisui gestured towards the cushions surrounding the table. Fushimi hesitated, momentary, barely perceptible, but Hisui noticed anyway. “There is nothing to fear. While you are in this place I have full trust in you, so long as you prove worthy of it.”

_'So long as you prove worthy of it,' huh?_ Fushimi suppressed a tongue click and settled himself down on the cushion opposite Hisui. 

“Surely you are wondering why I would allow you here, having belonged to the United Colors,” Hisui said serenely, his eyes bright on the map between them. Much of it was marked out in green and grey, and Fushimi's eyes involuntarily followed the line of Iwafune's retreat out the door.

“I suppose.” There wasn't much point in lying. Hisui's expression was open, almost childlike, but there was a keenness behind his eyes that made it clear that deceiving this man was no easy matter.

Hisui Nagare had once been the youngest ever Captain in the United Colors army, after all. He'd inherited the position from his late father and had won the trust and loyalty of his men in only a few short months. When the defection had occurred no one had expected any treachery from that corner until it was too late.

“You could say I considered it somewhat of an apology to you,” Hisui continued and Fushimi looked up at him in confusion. Hisui's fingers lightly touched the edges of the map, wrinkling the corners. “We have gained much territory of late. I expect all of this will be mine before long.”

The words were the sort of thing Fushimi would have expected from a dictator or a madman but the tone was simple and matter-of-fact, as if Hisui was only stating the movement of the tides or the position of the stars.

“What do you intend to do with all of it then?” He didn't exactly _wonder_ but Fushimi felt as though it would be something a person in his position would ask.

“Nothing at all,” Hisui replied. His face was still simple and honest like a child's, but with a predator's eyes. “I desire nothing from things I have obtained. I simply wish to _give_ instead – to give the freedom to the people of these lands that they have so lacked.”

“By conquering them?” Fushimi's mind warned him against the words too late but Hisui didn't seem offended at all.

“By liberating them,” Hisui said. “After all, there has been war in this land for decades, ever since the Colorless Guard stepped upon our shores. But it seemed to me that even should the Colorless Guard and their general be defeated there would still be war. History has taught us that well – a vast country, rich and prosperous...surely more will come from the outside to sit at our gates. That being the case, I felt that it was wisest to release the army's grip on this land all together in order to obtain true freedom.”

Fushimi didn't answer, eyes hooded and shoulders hunched.

“Of course, such a thing cannot be obtained easily,” Hisui continued. “It was regrettable that I needed to join forces with as unpredictable a man as the Colorless General but it was unavoidable for the greater good. Once all of this country is under my control there will be no more need for war. All will be equal and thus, true freedom will be gained at last.”

“Under your supervision, I'm sure,” Fushimi muttered under his breath. He knew he was walking a very fine ledge but Hisui didn't seem to mind his words at all. “What about those who dissent? Like the students who originally lived at this university...did they get to experience your 'true freedom' as well?”

“Of course,” Hisui said. “The quality of being free also contains the possibility of making the incorrect choice. The ones who chose to join hands with me of their own will are now part of my army.”

“And those who didn't?” Not like he didn't already know the answer, but Fushimi supposed he might as well say it.

“They received freedom as well. Of a sort.” 

_So you killed them._ Fushimi swallowed down a bitter laugh. _As if that's freedom at all. What a piece of shit plan._

“And as for you, Saruhiko...you also know of the freedom of choice, do you not?” Hisui said. “After all, you have also chosen to make war your profession, as your parents did, but in your own manner.”

Fushimi's head shot up, nerves suddenly on edge, and Hisui placed a calming hand on his shoulder.

“You need not fear it, Saruhiko.” Hisui smiled. “Your parents were dear friends of mine. It is due to your mother's diligence that I was able to find these tunnels, and your father's cunning which supplied the materials for many of our current explosives. I felt very disappointed when they chose the wrong path.”

His hands moved upward to cup Fushimi's head, cold palms against Fushimi's cheeks and Fushimi felt suddenly lightheaded, barely able to breathe.

“As I said before, this is my apology to you.” There was something almost hypnotic in Hisui's voice now and Fushimi thought he might be shaking. He was suddenly very aware of the darkness of the room, how low the ceiling, how stale the air. It was like being buried in the earth – the scar of Mikoto's coffin hovering over him, a single shadow with a long reach – and this time there truly was no clawing his way out. “Had I known of your existence at the time I would have taken you back with me in the aftermath. That punishment was intended for those with the power to make decisions, and you had none. I was deeply saddened when I learned of it later, that Fushimi Niki and Fushimi Kisa had a child who may have been caught in that fire. I was quite pleased later when I learned you had survived. I even sent Iwa-san to find you. He did not intend to lock you away in the fire at the factory. Had Suoh Mikoto not interfered, we would have taken you away as soon as it was safe to do so.”

Fushimi wanted to speak, to pull away, but Hisui's voice was soft and sincere and his grip almost gentle in a way that was nonetheless impossible to break.

“But now you have finally returned to me,” Hisui breathed. “I am eager to work with you, Saruhiko. The potential you hold is fascinating. I can see many possibilities within your eyes. I intend to use you well, if you will allow me. Will you pledge your loyalty to me? I will give you this freedom, to choose one more time.”

Fushimi swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry. Hisui's single visible eye almost seemed to glow in the dim light of the room, holding him caught like a mouse trapped by a snake. Trying to collect his thoughts under the light of that gaze was like trying to swim through mud.

Dimly he remembered a cellar filled with smoke. He remembered a blackened sky and a locked door. Remembered Misaki's gaze gone distant, Munakata's smile the curve of a blade as he twisted the knife deeper with every word.

And beyond that, more – Mikoto's hand on his head, Munakata's eyes staring down at a coffin draped in red. Misaki's smile and a warehouse floor covered in stars.

The edges of the map were lined in grey, and Fushimi remembered the man in black whose bullet had left Misaki lying still and bloody in the grass, had ruined those eyes that had once been the light that led him out of the dark so long ago. Fushimi smiled thinly and let the lie fit snug in his mouth the same way he would fit a gun in his hand.

“I will.”


	10. on the top current of love's final breeze

_XVI. bloody knuckles_

“What the hell does that bastard think he's _doing!”_ Yata slammed a fist against the wall, ignoring the spike of pain that shot through his knuckles and the small trickle of blood that blossomed along the edge of the newly made bruise. 

“Calm down, Yata-chan,” Kusanagi said quietly, tugging a bit at the bandage wrapped around his upper arm. He sighed, pressing a hand to his forehead. “At least you didn't hit the radio, I guess.”

They were sitting in a small dingy room that currently acted as the communications room for what remained of the United Colors Army. There wasn't much equipment here – a couple old radios, a telegraph, and when he'd first set foot inside Yata could almost hear Saruhiko's dry voice wondering where the butter churn was – but it was all they had. After the takeover of Shizume the Blue Captain had rounded up the remainder of the forces gathered at the emergency outpost and ordered everyone to the nearest satellite base, a day's march to the west. He'd made it clear that Homra was free to follow or leave as they wished and Kusanagi had been the one to make the final decision that Homra would be accompanying the Blue Division – for now, at least.

They'd discussed it a bit beforehand of course, Kusanagi and Yata and the remainder of their people. All of Homra had been lucky enough to make it out of camp alive, which had helped a little to ease Yata's mind still troubled by Saruhiko's departure. They'd all been pleased to see that he'd rescued Anna too and despite his exhaustion at the time that had been the one thing Yata was still able to feel proud of. 

His own opinion had been that Homra should make their own plan and retake the base but Kusanagi only shook his head when Yata had finally said it out loud. There wasn't much left of their forces and certainly not enough to take down the kind of numbers the Greens had currently stationed at Shizume. Besides that, Kusanagi had pointed out, if they all went back then they would have to leave Anna with the Blues and that was clearly out of the question – Yata hadn't gone to such lengths to save her only to abandon her to the arms of strangers even if they _were_ all on the same side. In the end strength in numbers was better than nothing, even if those numbers had to include the stupid Blues.

Saruhiko still hadn't returned to the emergency outpost by the time the army had set out for the new base. Yata had been tempted to see if he could stay behind and wait but the melancholy look Kusanagi had given him when he'd started to ask had been enough to stop him. They were leaving a few troops behind just in case any stragglers made it to the outpost late but beyond that everyone was expected to gather what little belongings they had and leave.

The satellite base wasn't much better stocked than the emergency outpost had been. The base was old and rarely used, far on the outskirts of their own territory and all swamp on one side. They were packed in close as well, even tighter than the old Homra barracks had been, Homra practically sharing bedrolls with the Blue Division's Scepter 4. Dimly Yata had found himself thinking that of all the inconveniences of the base this was the one Saruhiko would have hated the most, and had tried to force the thought from his mind.

They hadn't heard from Saruhiko for two months now. The few troops that had stayed behind at the emergency outpost had returned with no news and no other survivors, Yata and Anna having in fact been the last to arrive. The communications equipment at the satellite base was old and outdated but for whatever reason the Blue Captain insisted on having someone man the system at all times just in case. Yata was part of the rotation too and if he was being entirely honest he might admit that he'd tried sending test messages a couple times out into the air, hoping that somehow Saruhiko might hear them and respond back. But for two months there had been no word, not from Saruhiko or anyone else.

At least, not until three days ago. Kusanagi and the Blues' lieutenant had gone back to investigate the situation at Shizume, going alone in order to better avoid detection. They'd nearly made it out without incident too – until a gunshot had grazed Kusanagi's arm close enough to draw blood.

“How am I supposed to calm down?” Yata demanded. His fist hurt and he ignored the pain, punching the wall again. “Saruhiko...he....”

He'd been standing along the outer wall, Kusanagi had told Yata when he and Lieutenant Awashima had returned to the base. Kusanagi had looked up half a second too late, dodged at the exact moment the gun fired and the base lit up with flares and searchlights, and even if Kusanagi hadn't heard Awashima's shocked murmur beside him Kusanagi still would have recognized it anywhere, the face of the man standing there before them.

Saruhiko, a green armband stark against the black of his jacket, still with both of his pistols at his side. He had attacked Kusanagi and Lieutenant Awashima and then alerted the rest of the Greens to their location. They'd managed to escape without anything worse than the wound on Kusanagi's arm but it had been close, and they'd barely managed to make it back to the base without being followed.

“I'm sure he has his reasons.” Kusanagi looked uneasy at that and Yata glanced up sharply at him. 

“Kusanagi-san?”

“Ah, well...don't worry about that for now, Yata-chan.” The look on Kusanagi's face was thoughtful and oddly troubled, and it only made Yata more confused. Kusanagi shook his head and moved towards the door. “I need to finish deliverin' my report to our _Captain.”_ His tone was notably dry on the last word. 

“Why do we have to listen to that guy anyway?” Yata muttered, throwing himself down in the chair he'd overturned earlier when he'd first heard Kusanagi's story of what had happened at Shizume. “He's the one who backed Saruhiko into a corner in the first place.” Yata's fists clenched, a spike of pain shooting through his bruised knuckles at the movement and Yata ignored it, the memory of Saruhiko's heartbeat fluttering under his hands too vivid to shake. 

“For now I'm afraid there aren't any better options,” Kusanagi said with a rueful smile. “I'm not a fan of his way of doing things myself, but we're not in any position to deny his orders either. Though sometimes you're not the only one who wonders what he's thinking.” Kusanagi's eyes narrowed again. “Yata-chan.”

“Y-yeah?” The sober tone of Kusanagi's voice made Yata feel suddenly nervous and Kusanagi shook his head.

“No, never mind. I was just thinking...” Kusanagi's hand lingered on the bandage for a moment and his eyes were hooded. “When it comes to shooting, when was the last time you ever knew Fushimi to _miss?_ ”

Yata stared at him blankly in reply but Kusanagi didn't say anything more, only walked out of the room with the same troubled look on his face.

_What the hell is that supposed to mean?_ Yata crossed his arms and leaned his head on the table next to the radio. There was a small hum of static coming from the speakers and it was giving him a headache. _He probably just couldn't see that well in the dark or something. And why is Kusanagi-san standing up for that traitor anyway? He left us._

“Saruhiko, you asshole,” Yata murmured quietly, burying his head into his arms. He didn't even want to know what Saruhiko had been thinking this time, and it wasn't like it mattered anyway. He'd left, that was enough. For the second time, he'd left Yata behind without even so much as a proper explanation _why._

“....of the United Colors. Please respond. This is a transmission to the forces of the United Colors. Please respond.” 

Yata suddenly became aware of the tinny voice emitting from the radio and he sat up straight, fumbling for the microphone.

“A-ah, um, yeah! This is...er, United Colors base responding, Solider Yata Misaki speaking, um...who is this? I mean, state your name and rank and...whatever.” Kusanagi had given him a list of what he was supposed to say if he managed to hear anything over the radio and Yata suddenly couldn't recall a word of it.

“Heh. Of course it would be you doing the grunt work of listening for communications, huh, _Misaki?”_ Even with the voice muddled by static and distance the tone was instantly familiar and Yata jumped to his feet, slamming his palms hard against the table so hard it made the radio shake.

“Saruhiko!” Yata's grip on the microphone went white. “What the hell do you think you're doing contacting us you—you fucking _traitor!”_ He bit off the last word, harshly, and Yata could feel his entire body starting to tremble with the force of the emotions rushing through him, flowing through his veins hotter than blood could ever be. 

“Still don't understand anything at all, do you, Misaki?” There was the usual mocking lilt in Saruhiko's voice but Yata felt like there was something beneath it too, something he might almost have been able to grasp if they'd been face to face and not on either side of a weak fuzzy radio signal. 

“Yeah, I don't understand,” Yata said coldly. “I don't understand what the hell is going on in your stupid head that you could go over to the fucking _Greens_ of all people. You didn't have to leave--”

“I did,” Saruhiko said shortly. There was the sound of something from the other line, a buzz of muffled voices and movement and when Saruhiko spoke again it was like Yata was listening to him through layers of thick fabric. “I don't have time to spell things out so that your idiot mind will understand them. Is the Captain nearby?”

“Fuck your Captain, I'm not done talking to you,” Yata said shortly and he heard Saruhiko give an irritated sigh.

“It figures that out of everyone who could be manning communications I got stuck with an idiot like _you,_ ” Saruhiko said dryly. “Fine. I need you to give him a message.”

“Why should I listen to a message from the guy who betrayed us?” Yata said angrily. “You didn't have to go to those guys, Saruhiko. We could have – _I_ could have--”

“Stop talking about things you don't understand, idiot.” There seemed to be something almost _resigned_ in Saruhiko's voice and Yata wondered if it was just some combination of his imagination and the poor connection. “I told you, I haven't got time. Tell the Captain that he was right about the transmitter, an old radio set to a secondary frequency should be able to bypass the jammer. I'm sending you the location details via code, it'll be set at a fixed loop for the next three minutes so you had better find someone with a brain who can actually interpret it or else this entire mission will be for nothing.”

“What?” Yata repeated blankly. Something in the back of his mind insisted that Saruhiko's words should have made sense but they seemed to slur together in his ears, sounds with no meaning at all behind them, only Saruhiko's voice so close to him but Saruhiko himself too far away to touch.

“Honestly, Misaki, you're such a moron.” There was the resigned note again and something heavier, something almost like _regret_ that made the tips of Yata's fingers feel suddenly ice cold. “I'm shutting off communications now and setting up the relay code. Three minutes, Misaki. Go find someone already.”

“W-wait, Saruhiko!” Yata leaned in close to the radio, as if getting closer to it somehow could cross the unknown span of distance between himself and Saruhiko. “What are you talking about? Your location...”

“I suppose I couldn't expect an idiot like you to figure it out, even when it's right there in front of you.” Saruhiko gave a soft bitter laugh. “It's all right, Misaki. I'm sure you'll forget about me soon enough.”

“Forget?” Yata repeated, the chill spreading throughout his body, all his anger suddenly forgotten, thrown on the floor with the dust and dirt. “Stop saying weird stuff, Saruhiko! We're—we're going to see each other again, right? I still need to kick your ass for betraying us!”

“Right.” Saruhiko laughed again, patronizing almost. “Because I'm a _traitor.”_ His voice was heavy and final on the last word, the ringing of a funeral bell, and suddenly the idea of Saruhiko cutting off communications made Yata's heart feel like it was beating so hard it would burst.

“Saruhiko...” Yata swallowed shakily, words lodged in his throat so tightly he thought he might choke. “Stop—stop talking like that. You're really starting to freak me out you know...”

“Three minutes,” Saruhiko's voice repeated dispassionately. “Bye, Yata.”

The line abruptly went dead. A moment later Yata heard the sound of something beeping through the radio, a mix of short and long sounds in an odd but distinct pattern. It cycled once and then began to repeat.

“Saruhiko!” Yata shook the radio, as if that would do anything. “H-hey, Saruhiko!”

“So it has begun.” Yata whirled at the sound of the voice. The Blue Captain was standing in the doorway, flanked by two other soldiers of the division.

“W-wait, what's going on?” Yata choked out as Munakata strode past him to stand before the radio, listening to the repeating pattern. He nodded at one of the soldiers accompanying him.

“Take down the pattern and relay the coordinates to me as soon as you have them,” Munakata said. He looked up sharply at Yata, who found himself backing up slightly despite himself. “Did Fushimi-kun say anything else?”

“What are you--”

“Did Fushimi-kun say anything else?” Munakata repeated, the words clipped and cold.

“Y-yeah, he said something about..about a transmitter and a...another frequency, I guess?” Yata shook his head. “Wait, you knew Saruhiko was going to contact us?”

“I see. So it was as we thought.” Munakata ignored Yata's last question, a slow smile working its way across his face. “Excellent. Enomoto-kun, I trust you can handle it?”

“Yes sir!” The Blue standing by the radio gave a quick salute.

“Excellent. Fuse-kun, if you would assist?” Munakata gestured to the other Blue, who nodded and moved to join his comrade. Munakata turned without another word and began to walk away. Yata hesitated for only a moment before running after him.

“Hey, wait!” Yata yelled roughly. Munakata stopped, looking back at him with an impenetrable gaze, and Yata found himself so aware of his own heartbeat it felt as though he could stop it with only a thought, an echo of pulsing blood in his ears and a chill somewhere deeper down that no simple fire could warm. The memory of Saruhiko's voice as they'd spoken – _“Bye, Yata”_ – made him steel himself though, drag the words out. “What's happening? Saruhiko – he betrayed you, right, so why...?”

“You are correct. Fushimi-kun did betray me.” Munakata's voice was solemn and his expression was set and serious. “Or rather, he _appeared_ to be betray me, as was his mission.”

“Mission?” Yata felt as though all the air had suddenly gone out of the room, stomach dropping to his feet as he finally grasped the thing that had been hovering unseen at the edges of his mind since the moment he'd heard Saruhiko's voice over the radio.

“Indeed. I had managed to receive some intelligence indicating Hisui Nagare's next target was Shizume base,” Munakata said. “That being the case, I thought it prudent to prepare a contingency in case our forces were to be unable to hold the base against the Green Army. Should we lose, I instructed Fushimi-kun to infiltrate the Greens by any means necessary and relay their coordinates to me as soon as he was able.

“You...” Yata's hands shook and there was another sharp spike of pain from his bruised knuckles. “How the hell could you give him an order like that? If the Greens find out he could be killed--”

“He could.” The words were flippant but the tone was deadly serious. “I am well aware of the weight I carry, Yata-kun. Fushimi-kun himself agreed to the mission of his own free will, knowing the dangers he faced and that I could not guarantee his safety. He chose regardless. To take back those words afterward out of fear would be an insult to his loyalty. Thus I allowed him to leave the emergency outpost, knowing full well the den of vipers I was sending him into.”

“But...that's....” Yata stared down fixedly at the floor. His entire body was trembling, small fine shakes that seemed to reach down into his bones and he couldn't seem to make himself be still.

“Had he chosen to truly defect, of course, I imagine his safety would be guaranteed,” Munakata added mildly as he began to walk away, seemingly unconcerned with Yata's troubled state of mind. “But I felt that was a gamble worth taking and I do not, after all, take gambits I do not believe I can win. Now if you'll excuse me I must make preparations for the force to move out as swiftly as possible.” He glanced briefly back at Yata. “The final mission will begin as soon as I have the coordinates from Enomoto-kun. I suggest you prepare yourself as well. We must act swiftly if we are to arrive at Hisui Nagare's hideout in time for Fushimi-kun's extraction.”

“Extraction?” Yata repeated dully, barely able to grasp the meaning of the word through the chaotic whirlwind of his thoughts.

“It will take time to prepare the troops and march upon Hisui Nagare's base,” Munakata said, back turned away again. “Fushimi-kun is on his own until then.”

“Wait, but that's—he'll get killed, won't he?” Yata shook his head. “We can't _wait,_ we have to--”

“I trust Fushimi-kun will be able to handle himself until we arrive,” Munakata said. The words were confident but the tone was unreadable and Yata felt his heart drop, along with a sudden painful throbbing where his left eye had once been. “I choose to believe in that. I suggest you decide whether you wish to do the same, Yata-kun.”

With that Munakata walked away, the sharp tapping of his boots on the floor echoing hollowly along the corridor. Yata found himself falling back against the wall, one fist pressed close against his body.

“Saruhiko...” _He didn't betray us._ The realization was a weight in his stomach, dragging him down so much that before he knew it he'd fallen to his knees. 

_He didn't betray us. Saruhiko didn't betray us._

_He didn't betray us, and he's going to die._

–

The sky was gray and overcast, and Yata's boots were caked with dirt as he marched.

It had been hours now, since they'd left the base, and despite the fact that the majority of the force was on foot Yata hadn't heard a single word of complaint. Instead the company was almost eerily silent, the marching of dozens of boots and the soft engine rumble of the few trucks they had on hand the only sound. The air was hot and stuffy, the cold of winter having given way to a damp and humid spring, and where Yata thought he should have been able to see green growth and bright colors there was only mossy swamp and thick clinging mud.

They'd left in the early light of morning, the sun nothing more than a spot on the horizon and all but smothered under gauzy clouds. Yata had spent a fitful night in his bunk, turning Saruhiko's final words over and over in his head, telling himself that they were certainly going to reach Saruhiko in time, that Saruhiko would be waiting there with that look of quiet confidence and wondering what had taken them so long. Even so it seemed he couldn't quite stop his heart from clenching, couldn't stop worst case scenarios running through his mind, visions of a bloody corpse, of a charred face and a hand slipping from his one last time.

He'd said a reluctant goodbye to Anna before they'd left – this was one mission she wouldn't be able to accompany them on, having instead been entrusted to several Blue soldiers who were to lead her to refugee camp run by some one-armed demon man who had worked under the previous Blue Captain and who Lieutenant Awashima had assured Kusanagi would defend Anna's life with his own. Even so it had been hard for Yata to keep the encouraging smile on his face as he'd said his goodbyes, knowing where he was headed, what kind of battle was no doubt going to take place when he got there.

_(“Homra will definitely kick their asses!” The child's bravado he'd been forced to outgrow, and Yata had no illusions about their chances this time, about the shattered things he was marching towards, the empty hands he was likely to return with if he even returned at all.)_

“Saruhiko will be okay.” Anna's eyes had been oddly intent and Yata's expression had faltered for just a moment as she'd pressed a small red marble into his palm.

“Anna.” Yata had swallowed hard, not sure what to say – he knew Kusanagi hadn't told her about Saruhiko's 'betrayal' and Yata hadn't mentioned Saruhiko's part in the secret transmission at all per Munakata's orders; without knowing if Fushimi's position as double agent had been compromised Munakata had deemed it too dangerous to reveal his participation to the force at large. Still, in hindsight, Yata supposed he shouldn't have been surprised that Anna had known anyway. “Anna, Saruhiko is--”

“Bring him back home.” Anna had smiled at him then, and out of everything that had been what had made that old familiar confidence shoot through him for just a moment, his mind calm and clear and no pain at all from the missing space behind his eye patch or the scars on his palm.

He hadn't promised to bring Saruhiko back because he couldn't, not then. But Yata swore it to himself, with every step he took closer to Ashinaka where the Greens and Saruhiko were waiting.

He was going to save Saruhiko.

“Yata-chan.” Kusanagi's voice from beside him made him start, so lost in thought he hadn't even realized that the older man had come up beside him. Kusanagi's arm was still bandaged but he'd insisted on coming anyway, as Homra's acting commander.

“Kusanagi-san!” Yata attempted a messy salute and gave up on it halfway through.

“You feelin' all right?” Kusanagi placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and Yata gave a wavering smile in return. “You look pretty pale. We've got a long way to go still, you know.”

“Y-yeah, I know...” Yata's eyes were drawn to Kusanagi's bandaged arm and he couldn't stop himself from continuing. “Kusanagi-san...did you know about it? That Saruhiko was--”

“Ah, well, I wouldn't say 'knew.'” Kusanagi laughed a bit but his eyes were clearly troubled as his fingers brushed against his arm. “I thought it was strange. He had us caught, back at Shizume. Seri-chan and I didn't even know he was there, and we were in a bad position. If Fushimi had wanted to take us down, he could've managed a more devastating injury than this one. And Fushimi isn't the kind of guy to let his opponents off easy just because we used to be friends.” He glanced at Yata sharply on the last word and Yata kept his gaze steady.

“So...you agree with that bastard the Blue Captain's plan?” Yata asked, fists clenching. “Saruhiko could be--”

“Now, now, I didn't say that, Yata-chan.” Kusanagi idly lit a cigarette, taking a slow drag and blowing out smoke. “It's a risky move. I can't blame you for bein' angry. I'm not happy about it myself, usin' Fushimi as trump card like that, knowin' full well what could happen if he gets caught. But it's not my decision to make.”

“Because that asshole Blue--”

“Yata-chan.” Kusanagi's soft but stern voice stopped him. “I'm not talkin' about our _Captain_ either.” His voice was dry and unimpressed on the word 'Captain' and Kusanagi brought his cigarette up to his lips again. “From what I hear, it was Fushimi's choice to take the mission. That kid...” Kusanagi shook his head and then glanced at Yata. “Well, Fushimi's smart. He probably figured he could make it out on his own, if things came to that.”

“Hmmph. That guy's an idiot, you mean.” Yata crossed his arms and kept his gaze averted as he continued. “Kusanagi-san...do you think we'll make it in time?”

“Well...” Kusanagi trailed off, thinking, and Yata's heart clenched again. He'd tried saying it to himself, that it would be fine, that they would make it in time without any trouble at all. But Kusanagi, Yata knew, wasn't going to do that – not Kusanagi, who knew exactly what happened when a plan went awry, knew painfully well what the worst case could be. “I wish I could reassure you, Yata-chan. But right now...we can only trust in Fushimi, I'd say.”

“Trust in Saruhiko...” Yata gave a bitter laugh. “That guy's too stubborn to die easily, right? Once we save him I'm gonna kick his ass for not just _telling_ me what the hell was going on, fuck the secret mission.”

Kusanagi gave a small laugh and it made Yata feel suddenly a little more confident, energy seeming to spark back into his body.

“Give 'im an extra punch for me,” Kusanagi said lightly. He gave Yata an appraising glance and then looked up at the sky. “We'll probably be takin' a brief stop for everyone to get somethin' in their stomachs soon. Why don't you scout ahead for a safe clearing?”

“You can count on me!” Yata gave a sharp salute and increased his pace to a trot, bypassing the rest of the company easily as he ran ahead. The wind that blew by him was hot and stung his face just a bit, and the clouds hovered like steam on the horizon.

There was something else on the wind too, Yata realized, like a low hum in the distance, and he couldn't quite place where it was coming from.

“Ah, Yata-kun. We meet again.” The sound of the voice behind him made Yata whirl, any thoughts of strange sounds fleeing from his mind as he glared at the Blue Captain. 

“Aren't you supposed to be leading the army?” Yata muttered the words half to himself, well aware of how rude he was being to the guy who was – technically – his superior officer but he couldn't quite bring himself to care. This was the asshole who had sent Saruhiko to his possible death, after all, and if they were too late Yata knew that he would never forgive Munakata, no matter if Saruhiko had agreed for the 'greater good' or not.

“It appears we are taking a momentary rest,” Munakata said smoothly. “It seems we have a way to go still. I thought it best to be certain everyone is in peak shape for what may well be our final offensive against Hisui Nagare.” He eyed Yata keenly and Yata couldn't help but shift a bit nervously under that gaze. 

It wasn't like he didn't know all of this would be useless if they arrived exhausted and unable to fight. Even so, knowing that every moment wasted was a moment that Saruhiko was still in Hisui Nagare's clutches – might be already dead for all Yata knew, and his chest felt tight just thinking about it – made it impossible for him to stay still.

“...How could you send him there?” The words were out of his mouth before Yata could think better of them.

“Oh? I'm afraid I do not understand your meaning, Yata-kun.” Munakata's voice was calm and pleasant, and it pissed Yata off so much it took all his control to keep from grabbing the asshole by the front of his jacket and demanding to know what the fuck he'd been thinking, sending Saruhiko into the enemy's hands.

“Saruhiko.” Yata could hear the shake in his own voice. “You sent him straight into hell and now he might – he might be –”

“I am aware of the outcome of events which I myself set in motion.” Munakata's voice was dark and it made another shiver run down Yata's spine, as if someone had walked over his grave. “Even so, there was little choice. I required a contingency, and Fushimi-kun agreed to play that role. But allow me to ask you this, Yata-kun...what is Fushimi-kun to you?”

“Huh?” Yata looked up, caught off guard. Munakata was staring at him with bright appraising eyes and Yata shifted nervously. “Saruhiko...he was...” _My best friend,_ he wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come out. Who knew what they were to reach other now – and as for the past, Yata knew in that moment that 'best friend' wasn't, had never been enough to describe what they were to each other. Saruhiko had been _everything_ and even though things had changed, even though their worlds were so much larger now, Yata knew that if Saruhiko died there would always be a hole in him, more real than even the place where his left eye had been, a piece of his very soul gone that he would never be able to get back. 

“I see.” Munakata seemed to have read _something_ in his silence, taking a step forward and placing his hands on Yata's shoulders. Yata stiffened in his grip, fists clenching, and yet even so he couldn't tear his eye away from Munakata's. “I am aware that you do not consider me your Captain. Even so, I request this one indulgence of you: save Fushimi Saruhiko.”

“W-what?” It felt as though he must have missed something somehow, that there was no way Munakata would have ever spoken those words, and yet Munakata's eyes and face were still deathly serious.

“If you will accept it, I offer this mission,” Munakata continued. “When we reach Hisui Nagare's hideout, you are to locate Fushimi Saruhiko and enable his escape as quickly as possible. I would have him returned unharmed, if possible.”

“What the hell?” Yata choked out. “You sent him to his death and now you're asking _me_ \--”

“As I said, an indulgence,” Munakata said. “I told you before, Yata-kun. I am aware of the weight that I bear. Even so, my priority in this situation must be the capture or killing of Hisui Nagare. I cannot allow concern for a single soldier, even one as important as Fushimi-kun, to derail that priority. That being the case, I must entrust this mission to another. I offer it to you, if you will accept it. Save Fushimi-kun. Bring him home.”

“That's...” Yata swallowed, trying to find his voice around a throat gone dry. “I...”

The sudden sound of an airplane engine in the distance swallowed up his words and Yata started, instinctively looking up for signs of the planes he knew had to be approaching fast, fire bombs and black smoke carried along with them and he suddenly realized how vulnerable their army was, out here with only the forest for cover.

_Did they know we were coming? Does that mean...does that mean Saruhiko is..._

He turned to Munakata, expecting to see the army's de facto commander already turning to give orders for avoiding the inevitable airstrike. Instead Munakata was looking up at the sky with an expression that was undeniably _pleased._

“I see they've found us at last,” he murmured and Yata couldn't help but gape at him.

“What the hell are you talking about? The Greens are here, we have to--”

“On the contrary, Yata-kun,” Munakata said, eyes sparkling. “The sounds you hear are our reinforcements, arrived at last. I'm afraid I must take my leave. I imagine General Weismann will be looking for a place to land, and we have much to discuss.”

“General...?” Yata repeated, something in the back of his mind insisting that the name wasn't completely unknown to him. And as always it was Saruhiko's voice that gave him the answer, another echo of memory, nights in a barrack memorizing the names of their superior officers.

Weismann. The Silver General, leader of the only section of the United Colors that had anything like air support.

“I'm afraid our rest will have to be cut short.” Munakata was already walking away and Yata had to hurry to catch up with him. “The General and I will coordinate our strategies and then we must resume the march. If you would, please tell Kusanagi-kun that I request his participation in this meeting as well. We will be waiting for him at the head of the company.”

Yata stared at him blankly, his mind still trying to process what exactly was going on.

“And do think about my request,” Munakata added. “I do not intend to give you an order that you have no desire to follow, Yata-kun. But should you choose to make Fushimi-kun your priority over even the defeat of Hisui Nagare himself, I will allow it. You have complete freedom in this matter. Make your own choice, and do as you wish.”

There wasn't so much as the smallest pause in Munakata's steps but even so Yata had the distinct feeling of being dismissed. He stared after Munakata for a long moment before turning to head back towards the tail end of the force, where he knew Kusanagi would be. 

_Like I needed you to ask me that._ He'd known it from the moment he'd left their camp, what his primary goal in this mission was. Hisui Nagare, the Green Army – none of it mattered, not anymore.

“Saruhiko...” Yata closed his eye and raised his head towards the sky, breathing in the smoke on the wind, the scent of a fire about to spark. “If you die all by yourself I'll never forgive you.”


	11. there at the still point, that's where I'll be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final cliffhanger~

_XVII. bullet wound_

“ _Bye, Yata.”_

Fushimi felt something bitter rising in his throat and he swallowed it down as he double-checked the repeating pattern he'd set on the radio. It was a simple bit of code, designed to burn itself out after the predetermined time period, so that if anyone walked into the communications room after the three minutes had passed there would be no sign that Fushimi had even left it there in the first place.

The Green Army's communications room was above ground, inside the now-abandoned Ashinaka University. It had likely been there even before Hisui Nagare had taken over, judging from the bits and pieces of equipment that were still strewn everywhere – some kind of broadcast room used by students and faculty back in more peaceful days, now taken and twisted into just another weapon of war. The jammer had quite likely been there from the start too, unfinished perhaps, but intact enough that it had been able to become Hisui's trump card in the fight against the United Colors, disrupting their communications and leaving them vulnerable.

That was over at least, assuming Misaki had enough of a brain left in his head to deliver Fushimi's message. In truth, Fushimi put those odds at perhaps fifty-fifty, at best. Who would trust the words of a traitor, after all, and Misaki had made it clear that was all he saw Fushimi as now – a person who had left the United Armies and joined with their greatest enemy, all for his own personal gain.

_And what else would he think of you as? You didn't tell him about the mission._ The words hovered on the edge of his mind and Fushimi dismissed them. This was no time for worrying about Misaki, what he did and didn't think. Misaki's opinion of him wouldn't matter if he never made it out of Ashinaka and his mission – the mission he was staking his life on – had not quite finished yet.

It had taken some time to prepare the trap. For all the freedom Hisui Nagare gave him Fushimi was constantly aware that he was always being watched while in the Green Army's headquarters – if not by Hisui himself than by Yukari or Sukuna. And beyond that there was Iwafune Tenkei as well, an unknown quantity who appeared and disappeared as he pleased, who had run into Fushimi more than once when Fushimi had been carefully making his way through the maze of the Green army's tunnels, trying to perfect the map in his head. Iwafune always acted as if the encounters were mere coincidence but Fushimi knew better, and had kept his secrets close to his chest.

It had been impossible to tell exactly how much trust Hisui was placing in him. Hisui had certainly been willing to send him on multiple missions unaccompanied, even going so far as to have him evaluate the current state of the occupation at Shizume. Running into Awashima and Kusanagi had not been part of the plan, though he couldn't help but wonder afterward if that had somehow been a part of _Hisui's_ plan, to see if Fushimi would dare raise a weapon against his former comrades. In any case, Fushimi had held his cover until the very end. 

He had been on edge ever since then, sensing gunpowder in the wind, waiting for the chance to act. He'd been certain of it that morning, when he'd met Hisui in the main room of the base and found that map laid out on the table again and Hisui sitting beside it, staring down with shining eyes. From what Fushimi could discern Hisui was preparing for quite a large offensive – he hadn't said much to Fushimi about where they were planning to attack but weaponry and fuel for the planes had been shipped into the secret base in droves in the last few days, often enough that Fushimi would have had to be blind not to notice it. As part of the preparations, Iwafune had left the base early to oversee a shipment of shell casings arriving on the next truck. Yukari was also elsewhere, off on one of his own missions, and even Sukuna had been doing rounds through Ashinaka to make sure everything was still tightly under their own control. At this late stage, the possibility of rogue civilians or rebels starting up a disturbance was something that could not be tolerated.

Left alone in the base, Fushimi had finally been given the chance to put his plan into action. First, he'd made his way into the ammunition stores and set off as many fires as he dared, just enough to create a distraction. He'd stolen a few bombs and set them in the airplane hangar, doing a decent bit of damage to the Green Army's planes – again, enough to keep most of the rank and file busy and distracted while he made his way out of the tunnels and into the university. Most of Hisui's operations were taking place either beneath the school or behind it and so the majority of the force was concentrated there. Fushimi had prepared himself for the possibility of having to dispose of the soldiers manning the communications room but they had apparently been pulled away by the commotion Fushimi had made outside and the room had been entirely empty, giving Fushimi the precious time he needed to locate the jammer whose existence Munakata had theorized in their discussion months ago back at Shizume. He'd taken a moment to familiarize himself with the radio and then, judging that no one appeared to be in pursuit of him currently, he'd finally risked sending his own transmission.

He hadn't expected Misaki of all people to be the one to receive it but that was all right. As long as that idiot was able to get someone to decode the location transmission he sent out it didn't matter who he talked to. It certainly hadn't made him pause for a moment, hadn't reminded him of the voice he'd been certain he was never going to hear again after that night he'd walked away from the emergency outpost with bruises in the shape of Misaki's fingers darkening on his neck. Misaki's presence had been an unexpected hurdle but not one Fushimi had been incapable of leaping over without looking back.

So he'd moved forward, as he'd planned to do from the start, relayed his message and then cut communications entirely. Which left him where he was now, still in the heart of enemy headquarters, and with only one last move left to play.

Fushimi slowly made his way out of the communications room, letting the door click shut behind him. There were still no signs of any soldiers but the sounds of chaos from outside were dying down, the plumes of smoke he could see still rising out from behind the building growing thinner and thinner. The fires were likely almost out by now, the majority of the bombs discovered or disabled. Soon the focus of the Green army would turn from securing their remaining power to hunting down the one who had begun the destruction in the first place.

That meant two roads lay in front of him. He could try to run, get out of Ashinaka as fast as his feet could carry him. They were miles away from the nearest United Colors outpost and he would have no choice but to try and reach it on foot, making use of every stealth technique he knew in order to navigate the terrain and avoid capture. And even then the odds of him making it out safely were negligible at best – had Fushimi been in any other town held by the Green army he would have felt confident in his ability to out-think and out-plan any of the enemy's officers, but here he would be pitted against Hisui Nagare's own hand-picked inner circle. He would be a fool not to expect Mishakuji Yukari, at the very least, to be immediately on his tail the moment the other man returned from his own mission. And even if Fushimi did escape, his flight would likely signal to Hisui Nagare that there was a heavy possibility the United Colors had been made aware of his location. Even if Fushimi's message reached Munakata in its entirety, by the time the army arrived it might already be too late. Hisui Nagare would have moved on, and any chance at finding him would be lost for good.

And the second choice...Fushimi slowed to a stop directly outside the metal gate that led down into the tunnels. If he ran, it would be expected that he'd already communicated his location to the United Colors. If he was a double agent still working with them, he would naturally communicate the location of Hisui Nagare's home base and then try to reconvene with the rest of the force. But a _traitor,_ a person who was only interested in his own plans, his own escape, and nothing else...

Fushimi could feel his throat starting to constrict, the world around him narrowing to something fathomless and dark, lungs clogged by the memory of smoke, and his hands felt numb as he pulled the gate open.

If he was captured leaving Ashinaka, it would be assumed he had already come from the communications room, had already notified his comrades of his location. But if he was discovered _inside_ the tunnels instead, going back underground to continue the havoc he'd already begun, there was a possibility no one would even realize the full line of his trail. After all, only a fool would go back down into his own grave rather than reaching for the open sky above.

_A fool._ Fushimi laughed quietly to himself, short of breath and heart beating fast from something more than just exertion as he stepped forward and forced himself back down into the darkness.

The tunnels seemed to close in on him as he walked and Fushimi kept one hand on the far wall, following the twists and turns of the underground. He didn't bother to head for the centralized bunker Hisui and his comrades used as a living area and war room – there would be no reason for him to return there and if he wanted to fake an escape it would make no sense to go to the spot where he knew the enemy would be. There was more than one way out of the tunnels, after all. All he needed to do now was follow the turns until he got close enough to one of the exits, and then wait to be caught.

Fushimi felt a thin smile wind its way onto his face, feeling oddly detached from the workings of his own body, as if his mind was a separate machine from the muscles that moved his flesh. That was all he was doing, really. Biding time until he was captured and returned to Hisui Nagare to be killed, only hoping that the minutes and hours he bought with his life would be enough. 

“Hey, Saruhiko. It's really too bad it turned out to be you after all, huh?”

Fushimi immediately slowed to a stop at the sound of the voice, one hand going to the holster of his pistol as he turned even though he knew full well that there would be no point in drawing the weapon, especially here underground. Iwafune Tenkei leaned against the wall behind him, shaking his head as if confronting a troublesome child.

“I'm not an idiot,” Fushimi said coldly, putting all the scorn he could into those words. “Don't tell me you're all so stupid that you didn't see this coming, right? _Ootori Seigo._ ”

Iwafune's expression tightened for just a moment before he gave a sheepish laugh, shaking his head.

“Well, well, you've got me there! But it's Iwafune Tenkei now. Honestly, kids like you are just too bright nowadays, huh?”

“I've read about the Grey Division,” Fushimi said with a shrug. “It wasn't hard to figure out after that. I never saw anything about an 'Iwafune Tenkei' in their ranks. Guess that military funeral with full honors was wasted on a living man.”

“No, no, those rites were meant for the dead and belong to the dead,” Iwafune said amiably. “Ootori Seigo did die that day, you see. That guy was loyal to old man Daikaku, and, well...” He spread his arms wide and shrugged.

“Is that why Hisui Nagare sent you after me?” Fushimi laughed coldly. “So we could talk, traitor to traitor.”

“Whatever makes you feel better, kid,” Iwafune replied, completely unaffected, and Fushimi couldn't help but frown in annoyance. “But you know, I don't really see myself as a traitor. I guess you could say....we're liberators.”

“Liberators.” Fushimi snorted. “You're all a bunch of idealistic idiots, chasing a stupid dream to your deaths.”

“Ah, well, I guess that's how you'd see it.” Iwafune chuckled, scratching his head. “But you know, Saruhiko...aren't you tired of it too? Bein' dragged into a war without any understanding of it.”

“Tch. I never had any interest in the reasons from the start,” Fushimi said blandly. “The only thing I'm interested in is a battlefield, pounding blood and torn flesh. I'd hoped the Green army would be more suited to my tastes, that's all.”

Iwafune stared at him for a moment then and Fushimi's hands twitched again, keeping his breathing steady. It wouldn't do to be seen through here of all places, closed in with no more tunnels to escape into.

“Honestly, you kids.” Iwafune shook his head. “That brat, Munakata, he put you in a high position, didn't he? Can't even drink yet and they've got you leading an army. Do you even know what any of this is about? Or did they just hand you a gun and tell you to fight, and you did it?”

“Does it even matter?” Fushimi drawled. “You're the ones who started all this, right? The Green General's just as interested in a war as anyone else, you don't need to shroud it in your shit morals just so you can feel righteous about it.”

“I raised Nagare, you know.” Iwafune's voice took on a conversational tone, as if telling a story to a child, and Fushimi's face twisted in a scowl. “His old man and I were best friends. Before that guy died, he asked me to take care of his kid. To make sure Nagare didn't die like his dad did, insides all torn up by a landmine on a battlefield. I'd barely got back to base when that old fart Daikaku handed Nagare a gun and a rank. Like more blood sacrifices to the beast called war could do any good, or bring us any peace.”

_Coming from a guy whose hands are caked in blood to the elbows,_ and Fushimi clicked his tongue again, measuring the possibilities of whether or not one of his knives could hit its mark before Iwafune retaliated and killed him in return. 

“Well, I guess there's no point in tryin' to explain it to you, huh?” Iwafune shook his head. “We were pretty excited to have you join, too. Once we get the rest of this country under Nagare's control we'll finish the ships they're building in the coastal towns and Nagare's dream will spread everywhere. Would've been nice if you could see it, you know?”

Fushimi tensed, mind immediately shooting ahead, calculating trajectories and the arc of a bullet's ricochet in such close quarters – Iwafune had only his gun and would he dare to draw it, would he hesitate, and Fushimi still with his knives that could give him the advantage in a space like this, even as his breathing sped up and his throat felt like it was closing.

Iwafune's stance shifted and Fushimi's hands immediately flashed inside his sleeves, fingers grasping for the hilt of a knife. But Iwafune's eyes weren't on him at all, hands not even moving towards the gun at his waist, gaze focused instead of something just over Fushimi's shoulder--

A moment too late Fushimi whirled, knife falling from limp fingers as Mishakuji Yukari materialized out of the darkness, a whirl of black cloak and silver sword. There was a spike of pain in the back of his head and then the black spots hovering on the edges of Fushimi's vision converged and swallowed him whole.

_No exit,_ and as he fell heavily to the ground Fushimi smiled.

–

Fushimi's hands bled slightly where they were tied behind his back as he was led through a line of silent staring Green soldiers towards his death.

There was something almost calming about it, numbness settling in, and he couldn't quite feel his fingers. This was fine, though. If the Greens were wasting time on him that meant the full scope of his treachery hadn't been discovered yet, and that was the important thing.

After being knocked unconscious by Yukari Fushimi had woken up with a raging headache and blood on his forehead, bound behind cold iron bars and pressed close to a rock wall with barely enough room to turn around. From what he could tell the cage had been originally made to be part of a transport elevator but only the elevator shaft and the bars for the door had been constructed. The cage had been pitch dark, not even so much as a candle left for him, and he'd lain there in the darkness for a long time, focusing on breathing in and out and keeping his heartbeat steady. That was when Sukuna had shown up with a lantern and a mouth full of idiotic bravado, gloating about Fushimi's failure and calling him a traitor. 

_Traitor,_ as if Sukuna was the first to say that word, as if it even mattered coming from Sukuna's mouth when so many others had beaten him to it. In the end, though, Sukuna's presence had been a stroke of luck – Yukari or Iwafune might have seen through Fushimi's taunting replies and held their tongues, but Sukuna had been too easy to rile up and it hadn't taken long for Fushimi to grasp the situation. The problems he'd caused around the base had of course been noticed and had even done some slight damage, but there had been no mention whatsoever of him infiltrating the communications room. If the Green Army had known about it Fushimi was certain Sukuna wouldn't have been able to resist rubbing that last failure in his face. His own life might be forfeit now, but his message at least had remained a secret until the end.

One of the soldiers flanking him shoved him forward and Fushimi clicked his tongue, trying not to stumble. The soldiers around him all watched his passage with faces completely obscured by their masks and it made him feel lightheaded somehow, being surrounded by row upon row of faceless figures, impassive and anonymous. Near the front of the procession Fushimi could see Yukari glance back at him curiously, one hand on the hilt of the saber that Fushimi knew from experience was no more decorative than the knives that covered his own body. Or had covered, rather, as all of those had been taken from him, along with his two pistols (and part of him wanted to ask for it, where they'd taken that old secondhand pistol he'd once scavenged from a garbage bin and fixed up while Misaki stared at him with fascinated eyes, the relic that had been one of his most precious things all this time). 

He was completely unarmed now, for the first time in a very long time, and it made Fushimi feel more exposed than he'd ever been before. The sky above was hazy, heavy with gray clouds, and he wondered if it was going to rain. Not that it would matter to him in a few more minutes, of course. But the United Colors should be marching even now, and rain would only impede their progress.

“Hmph. This is something you've gotten yourself into, traitor,” Sukuna taunted as Fushimi was forced down to his knees in front of a wooden platform. Hisui sat to one side of the platform with Sukuna and Iwafune at his side, looking down at Fushimi with an unreadable expression. Yukari moved to stand on Hisui's other side, shaking his head.

“How unfortunate,” Hisui murmured. His gaze was fixed on Fushimi and Fushimi returned it as steadily as he dared. “I did have high hopes for you, Saruhiko. You would have done well as part of my army.”

“This is my freedom, right?” Fushimi gave him a cold smile but Hisui didn't so much as blink.

“Indeed.” Hisui nodded to one of the soldiers standing behind Fushimi and Fushimi found his head jerked abruptly upward, a cloth pulled down over his eyes so that his entire line of vision was obscured by darkness. He could still hear Hisui's voice though, and something like the hum of an engine in the distance.

So he hadn't managed to destroy any of the planes after all. Fushimi suddenly felt a laugh building in his throat as he was dragged up onto the platform, blindfolded with arms still bound. 

“Your betrayal has won you nothing.” Hisui's voice continued. Fushimi felt the light touch if raindrops on his skin and he wondered if they were all going to stand out there like idiots in the middle of a storm just so Hisui could enjoy the theatricality of a public execution. “I had hoped you would be the one member of your family who could stay by my side, Saruhiko. You had such potential. It is a shame that your choices have lead you elsewhere. But of course, I cannot allow such a thing to go unpunished. I apologize for this.”

Fushimi heard Sukuna laugh again accompanied by the familiar sound of metal being pulled from a sheath, Yukari drawing his sword.

“Men, raise your firearms!” Yukari's voice carried easily, even with the sound of planes drawing nearer. Fushimi leaned his head back, letting the rain hit his face cold and wet.

_Misaki..._ Fushimi chuckled quietly. Well, what else had he expected, in the end? To be saved? That was foolishness from the beginning, and he'd known it. He had completed the mission. His own life was immaterial now. His only regret was that he wouldn't be able to enjoy watching Hisui Nagare's army fall.

Still, he'd gotten his own revenge now, for that day on the hill and the dark red hole where Misaki's eye had been. That was enough. After all that digging in the dark, he'd finally found a tunnel that had only a single way out.

“On my mark. One...”

_This is so stupid._ He wanted to laugh almost, laugh and keep laughing until the moment the Green army's bullets pierced his body. Wouldn't that give them all a show, far better than anything he and Misaki had seen in the town square so many years ago. At that time he'd actually thought that perhaps it wouldn't even be so bad if they were caught, as long as they died together.

But this was the way it had been meant to be from the start. Dimly he heard Yukari continue the countdown and Fushimi let his head hang down limply against his chest. It was fine this way.

A cellar full of smoke, and he'd always been meant to die alone.

“Three...and f--” Yukari's voice was cut off by the roar of engines. Something exploded nearby, so close that Fushimi found himself suddenly thrown to the ground below, blindfold nearly coming loose as he landed hard on his side.

“W-what the hell, why are our planes--” Fushimi heard Sukuna's voice over the sudden commotion, followed by Hisui's reply.

“Those are not our planes.” He didn't sound upset or worried, as Fushimi would have expected. Instead there was nothing in Hisui Nagare's voice but _anticipation._

“But they have to be ours, the United Colors doesn't have any air support!” Sukuna sounded like a child throwing a tantrum and Fushimi found himself laughing quietly as something else exploded to his right. The blindfold had slipped down slightly and with his glasses missing he could just make out the hazy shapes of Green soldiers running around the camp, trying to put out the rash of fires that seemed to have sprung up out of nowhere. He heard someone yell off in the distance and then the soldiers were running back towards the town gates, a black shape that might have been Iwafune in the lead.

“So they've come at last.” Hisui Nagare was already moving to follow Iwafune, Yukari at his side. Fushimi couldn't see where Sukuna had gone but rolling his head back to look upwards he could see small hazy silhouettes darting through the sky. There was another explosion somewhere further back, near the university entrance.

There was only one division in the United Colors that had air support, and Fushimi found himself smiling despite his position. His message had made it after all. 

_You finally managed to get through to Mihashira, huh, Captain?_ The planes above could only mean that the Silver General, at least, was still alive and had no doubt been contacted by Munakata as soon as he'd managed to adjust the frequency of their transmissions in order to get around Hisui Nagare's jammer. 

Another explosion made even the ground shake and Fushimi found himself thrown forward again, debris scattering around him as the platform burst into a shower of splintered wood. Fushimi felt something strike him, sharp and painful, and he angled his head so that he could just make out the thick piece of wood that had hit him, buried deep in his side.

Fushimi grimaced and tried to pull himself into a sitting position, moving his arms so that he could just press the ropes that bound his hands against the sharp splintered end of the plank sticking out of his body. There was blood pooling on his shirt from where the wood had sunk deep into his skin and Fushimi's already hazy vision swam even more but still he worked his bound hands against the wood, the rope fraying just enough so that he was finally able to pull his hands free.

Fushimi forced himself to his feet, stumbling forward as he yanked the rest of the blindfold off his face. The base around him was in chaos, fires and bodies everywhere, Green soldiers trying to put out the flames as others ran through the camp with their weapons drawn. In the distance Fushimi could just make out an approaching wave of red and blue figures coming to meet them, and above it all, carried along by wind and smoke, a familiar voice.

“Saruhiko! Where the hell are you?”

Fushimi felt another laugh bubbling in his throat as he took a staggering step forward. Pain lanced through his side and he could feel something wet on his lips. Fushimi pressed one hand against his injured side, forcing himself to walk forward.

_That idiot..._ Of course Misaki would be here, calling for him. Fushimi stumbled and sank down to his knees, his limbs feeling suddenly too heavy to move. 

“This is all your fault!” Fushimi barely had time to register the sound of Sukuna's voice before something dealt him a glancing blow to the side of the head and he fell to the ground. Fushimi stared up blankly through the rain and the blood that was running down his face. Sukuna stood over him, still clutching the pistol he'd just hit Fushimi with, breathing hard and face wet from something more than rain.

“Nagare _welcomed_ you!” Sukuna's hands clenched spasmodically around the pistol. “And look what you've done. You... _traitor!”_

Fushimi couldn't stop himself from laughing now, his entire body shaking with the force of it, and even Sukuna raising the gun and the white hot pain that lanced through his upper thigh, along with the sound of a gunshot that accompanied it, couldn't stop the convulsive laughter.

“Looks like your precious _Nagare's_ finally lost, huh?” Fushimi's vision seemed to be going gray at the edges and it was hard to keep his gaze steady on Sukuna's face, the image constantly slipping just out of focus. Dimly he heard Misaki yell for him again. “But you never thought of that, did you? This is a _war._ Did you really think you could always win?”

“Shut up!” Sukuna's pistol pressed cold against his forehead and still Fushimi couldn't stop laughing. “Nagare won't lose. Nagare _can't_ lose.”

“That's why I hate kids like you,” Fushimi murmured. “You think you can hold shit like this together with just words. It doesn't work. It _never_ works.”

“I said, shut up!” The pistol again, pressed close against his skin and Fushimi couldn't even feel it, entire body gone numb with cold and pain. “We haven't lost yet.”

“Yes, you have.” Fushimi smirked, letting his body go limp in the dirt. “None of you get that, do you? You, Misaki...none of your ever know when to just accept when you've finally, finally _lost.”_

Sukuna's hand was shaking on the hilt of the pistol and Fushimi smiled up at him.

“Go on.” His voice sounded like a croak in his own ears and Fushimi couldn't hear anything but the rain. “If you're going to do it, get it over with.”

Sukuna gave a wordless scream and there was the roar of a gun firing in his ears, accompanied by a cold pain in his head. The sky above had gone completely black, the sky and the ground and everything, and as his eyes began to slide closed Fushimi could just make out someone running towards him, reaching for him.

“Misaki.” The word was thick in his mouth and it felt almost as if it was someone else speaking, not his voice at all.

“Saruhiko...” Misaki's hands were gentle as they cradled him and Fushimi couldn't seem to keep Misaki's face into focus. Fushimi tried to open his mouth again, to speak even without knowing at all what he would say, and all that came out was another wet cough. Misaki's hands tightened around him and Fushimi couldn't tell which one of them was shaking.

_Misaki...I'm..._

Cold crept in through every one of his limbs and despite the dimming light Fushimi could just make out Misaki's mouth moving even though Fushimi could no longer hear the sound of his voice.

Something gray closed in along the corners of his vision, sweeping Misaki's face away entirely, and Fushimi reached up to embrace the darkness with both hands.


	12. when it all comes out in the wash, I will love you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter~ Major thanks to anyone who stuck around this long...when I started this I expected it to be about 50000 words shorter and finished much earlier but...stuff happened XD Please enjoy the last chapter for Sarumi Fest ^^

_XVIII. bullet hole_

“Saruhiko!”

Yata's heart was beating fast, adrenaline hot in his veins as he ran through the chaos that was Ashinaka. It looked nothing like what he remembered from when Homra had been here so many years ago – they'd been liberators then, or so they'd thought, driving the Greens out and taking the town back for the people. By contrast, the town they had entered minutes ago had been all but deserted, not a single sign that any of the civilian population remained. In place of what should have been a bustling town there was nothing but a war machine, stores of ammunition scattered everywhere and empty lots filled with landed planes waiting to refill. It had felt like entering a ghost town, somehow, like a corroded memory, and he'd almost lost himself in it when the first Green soldier had spotted them. The enemy had barely raised his gun to fire when there was a flash of blue and the man fell into a heap, a victim of Munakata's sword. Moments later there was smoke in the air and the hum of airplanes above that made Yata's entire body tense, even though he knew that this time that they were on his side – the Silver General's air support, beginning the bombardment that signaled the start of their mission.

Yata had no idea what had taken the Silver Regiment so long to join up with them. He'd heard some of it from the sidelines; Kusanagi had allowed him to sit in on the meeting between Munakata and Silver General Adolf Weismann but most of the conversation had gone over his head, more talk of the jamming device that Yata recalled Saruhiko mentioning in that – final – message, discussion of an apparent attack on Mihashira and the death of the Golden General from what could have been illness or could have been poison. That last had made Yata and Kusanagi exchange a look of shock but Munakata had simply nodded gravely, as if he'd expected it. 

_That asshole probably did expect it,_ Yata recalled thinking afterward, as he'd roused the rest of the troops from their momentary break to begin the march anew. They'd stopped only one more time, just out of view of Ashinaka, and Yata had been checking over his weapons and talking with some of the other Homra members when he'd spotted Kusanagi moving to speak with Munakata and the Silver General again. There had been a girl at the Silver General's side who Yata hadn't recognized at all, with long pink hair, mismatched eyes and dark clothes. As he'd gotten closer Yata had managed to overhear some of the conversation – the girl was apparently a stealth operative of the Silver General's who had infiltrated Ashinaka briefly and brought back drawings of the town's defenses and the Green General's war machines, along with one other piece of news: Ashinaka was preparing for a public execution before the beginning of the next attack. The girl hadn't gotten the name of the prisoner, but the description was enough to make Yata's heart stop for a moment, limbs going numb, breath cold on his lips.

Saruhiko was going to be executed by firing squad, for the crime of treason.

“Saruhiko!” Yata yelled the name again, dashing past both enemy and ally soldiers as he ran blindly through the town. The Silver General's operative had reported that the Greens had built a makeshift execution platform near the university and so that was where Yata was headed – most of the enemy soldiers seemed to be coming from that direction as well, no doubt gathered to watch the execution and only just alerted to the beginning of the counterattack by the arrival of the Silver Regiment's planes.

_It could be too late already._ Yata's fist clenched around the hilt of his gun and he shook his head, rain dripping down his face as he forced himself to focus on his mission. He couldn't let himself think about what would happen if they'd been too late. If he thought that, it would all be over.

And then it came into view, like a fog lifting, and Yata found himself stopping dead as he stared at the scene in front of him.

Saruhiko was lying limply on his side, clearly wounded, his uniform covered in blood. His body was shaking – _what the hell, is he_ laughing – and there was someone standing over him, a gun aimed at Saruhiko's head.

Yata had never been a good shot, even before the loss of his eye. He'd joked with the other guys at Homra about it, that at least he had an excuse now for not hitting his targets in practice. Kusanagi had always just smiled thinly and put a hand on Yata's shoulder, and told him that he had some of the best reflexes in the squad, it was just his aim that needed work.

It was those reflexes that seemed to take hold of him now, vision narrowing dark and thin on the two figures in front of him. A million thoughts were already racing through his head, so fast they blurred together – there was a bullet hole in Saruhiko's thigh and a piece of wood sticking out his side, he was laughing so he was still alive, the guy holding the gun on him was just a kid who looked somehow familiar and would it be a killing shot, could he live with that, killing a kid even f it was a battlefield, even if he'd lost so much already could he really do this, could his shot really hit its mark when his hands were shaking so much from the cold – and Yata raised his gun.

He heard the recoil of his own weapon in his ears and he saw the Green kid's body jerk backwards, another gunshot echoing his own at almost the same moment, and Saruhiko's body convulsed, blood spilling fresh on the ground.

“Saruhiko!” Yata was by Saruhiko's side so fast he couldn't even entirely recall how he'd gotten there, the space between when his legs had begun to move and when he fell to his knees next to Saruhiko's limp body a complete blank in his mind. 

“Misaki.” He wasn't entirely certain that he heard the voice, choked with blood, and the light in Saruhiko's eyes seemed to be dimming even as Yata cradled Saruhiko's body in his arms. There was a bloody gash along Saruhiko's temple – the bullet that had been intended to go through his skull having been knocked off course by Yata's own shot, only grazing instead of penetrating. But even a graze might have been more than enough, Yata knew that, when Saruhiko had already lost so much blood.

“Saruhiko...” Yata pulled him close, as if he could transfer some of his own warmth to the body that already felt cold and heavy in his arms. Saruhiko was staring at him and through him, eyes not quite in focus, mouth moving but no sound forcing its way past its throat. “You...you better not die, you shitty monkey. You don't tell me anything, you know? I don't care if it's a fucking secret mission. You could have just said it, you stupid fucking moron, and I would've figured it out. I'm not that stupid, you know.” He ran a hand along Saruhiko's cheek, staring down at him through vision that seemed to have suddenly gone watery.

But Saruhiko's eyes were closed, body sagging in Yata's arms, blood staining Yata's own uniform.

Bloody and wounded and unconscious, but still breathing.

_He's still breathing._

Yata's hands tightened over Saruhiko's shoulders, holding Saruhiko close as he stood. It was awkward and he knew he was vulnerable, unable to use his weapon properly with Saruhiko cradled in his arms, but it didn't matter. He'd taken this mission, hadn't he? _Save Fushimi Saruhiko._ Fuck if Yata was going to fail at that, not this time.

“Ugh...” The kid who had shot Saruhiko stirred, groaning in pain, and Yata barely spared him a look. Later he supposed he'd feel relieved, that he hadn't killed a kid, but that didn't matter now. Nothing mattered except getting Saruhiko to safety.

Saruhiko who was still breathing, painfully and stubbornly. 

“We're getting out of here,” Yata murmured, readjusting his grip on the unconscious body in his arms. Saruhiko's breath hitched slightly and Yata froze, unable to move until he saw that chest start to rise and fall again. And then Yata was off, running through the chaos that was the Green army's camp, not sure where he was going but only knowing that he had to get Saruhiko _out,_ had to find something like safety where he could get Saruhiko's wounds treated before Saruhiko was beyond the help of even a hospital.

The sound of a gunshot to his right made him whirl, pivoting on one leg and dashing through the nearest alley. He could hear yelling behind him, some of the voices familiar and others not, but there was no time to stop now. Homra and the Blue Division couldn't concern him this time. His mission had been to find Saruhiko and save him, and Yata intended to follow that order to the end.

There was the sharp crack of another shot and Yata skidded to a stop, only able to stare blankly as a man in what looked like priest's robes crumpled to the ground only a few feet in front of him. Munakata stood there near the mouth of the alley, stiff and regal in the middle of the street, sword in one hand and the other bleeding and held close to his chest, his weapon trained on a man in a wheelchair who sat facing him. There was a gun on the ground between them, Munakata's, half-stained with blood.

_Hisui Nagare._ Yata had heard tales of the head of the Green army, the guy who'd tried to take on the Golden General himself and had reportedly paid the price for it in blood. Hisui's form in the chair was motionless, a weapon in each hand, a gun pointed at Munakata and a sword at the throat of the man Yata recognized as the Silver General, bleeding from a bullet hole in his side and held in an iron-tight grip.

“Munakata Reisi.” Hisui Nagare's voice was calm, conversational, and Munakata didn't even flinch. “Lower your weapon. Your mission has already failed, has it not?”

“Oh?” Munakata raised an eyebrow and Yata realized that there was blood dripping down from a wound just above his forehead as well. “It seems that you are the one backed into a corner now, Hisui Nagare.”

“I have a shield. Will you kill this one as well, knowing what it will cost?” Hisui's grip tightened on the Silver General, who didn't move. The man's eyes were open though, Yata could see that even from where he stood, and they were constantly moving back and forth from Hisui to Munakata, as if gauging the next move. “With both Silver and Gold Generals dead the United Colors will fall apart. Yukari has already escaped your clutches, and my men are scattered far and wide across this country. Your faction cannot live without its figureheads, but my dream has a long reach. As long as one man lives to carry it, it will be realized in time.”

“You speak like a madman,” Munakata said coolly. “For the sake of the order of this country, it is my duty to slay you if you will not surrender. Otherwise you will meet the same fate as the Grey General.”

Hisui's emotionless eyes seemed to flash bright then, a burning anger deep in their core that made even Yata take a step back, holding Saruhiko's body closer even as he wondered if he could reach his pistol without setting Saruhiko down, if he could manage to aim and shoot from this position, avenge Totsuka and Mikoto with one bullet regardless of what could happen next...

“You will not leave this place alive,” Hisui said calmly, holding the sword even closer against the Silver General's throat. “My freedom will not be denied, Munakata. You cannot chain this country to those shackles you call order. In the new country, everyone will be as a King and there will be no wars, only peace, gained under my watch. True freedom can only be found in the offer of a choice.”

“It appears we are at a fundamental disagreement.” Munakata took a step forward and Hisui didn't even flinch, didn't so much as move. “Such freedom is nothing but an illusion. Or do you truly believe you have found it, hiding beneath a conquered city like a rat? That there is freedom in all that you have burned to the ground in pursuit of a place where nothing will burn?”

“You are already corrupted, Munakata.” Hisui shook his head. “Your ideals will destroy you in the end, just as Suoh Mikoto's did.”

Yata tensed, hands trembling where they held Saruhiko close. He could feel Saruhiko's labored breaths against his body, uniform heavy with blood, but his feet refused to move.

“No.” Munakata lowered his sword then, and Yata could only stare at him in confusion. _Is he-- don't tell me that bastard's giving up? Now? After all the shit we've been through...after Saruhiko almost_ died _for this...!_ “Rigid ideals will only snap in two, when pressured too long. I have learned, as they say, to bend in the wind.”

The sound of a gun firing tore through the air and Hisui Nagare's body jerked forward, the Silver King tearing himself from hands gone limp as the Green General toppled from the chair and landed in a pool of his own blood, dead before he hit the ground of a gunshot wound to the back of the head.

“Wha...” Yata felt his own knees give way, still trying to process what he'd just seen, and Munakata raised his head to look at the man who had fired the lethal shot into Hisui Nagare's skull.

“Excellent timing, Lieutenant Kusanagi.” A thin smile played across Munakata's lips. “I had thought you might hesitate, for a moment.”

“Don't be givin' me that face.” Kusanagi stepped forward, gun in his hand and a look of distaste on his face – for Munakata's words or for what he had just done, Yata couldn't be sure.

_(But Kusanagi had lost more than even Yata had that cold day in the snow when they'd defeated the Colorless General and with one shot he'd avenged it all, Homra and Homra's pride, and that sad bundle tied to the back of the horse that still appeared in Yata's nightmares even after all this time.)_

“Kusanagi-san...” Yata forced the words from a dry throat and Kusanagi turned, surprise and then concern crossing his face as he spotted Yata and the burden he carried.

“Ah. You have completed the mission as assigned.” It was Munakata who stepped forward, knelt beside Yata and pressed a hand to Saruhiko's pale cheek. Everything seemed to rush back into focus, Saruhiko in his arms and the blood that was stained both their uniforms, and it took everything in Yata not to clutch him close away from Munakata's grip. 

“Captain Munakata?” The Silver General came up behind them on shaking legs, face pinched with pain but features still narrowing in concern as he spotted Saruhiko in Yata's arms.

“Is the emergency helicopter where I requested?” Munakata turned to look at him and General Weismann nodded.

“I left Kuroh back there to guard it, and to take care of anyone who might try and block our means of escape, if things turned for the worse.” Weismann's eyes darted to Saruhiko and then back to Yata, and his face was grave. “I had hoped we wouldn't have need for the emergency medical evacuation, but...” He shook his head and addressed Yata directly. “It's the only choice, I think. Kuroh can take Fushimi-kun by air while the rest of us finish routing the Green army. It's Fushimi-kun's best chance of making it to a hospital while there's still blood left in his body.”

“ _While there's still blood left in his body,”_ and Yata felt a chill run through his veins as he stood on legs that threatened to give way again at any moment. There were still enemies to fight, he knew that, still so much more to do before they could say this battle had been won.

But Saruhiko was still breathing, and for the moment that was all that mattered. 

–

Yata sat in a chair next to Saruhiko's hospital bed, and waited.

Everything still felt like a blur in his mind from the moment he'd reluctantly turned Fushimi over to the Silver General's second in command and had been forced to watch the helicopter rise into the sky and disappear, headed for the nearest hospital. He'd remained there on the grass outside Ashinaka staring up at the sky for who knew how long before grabbing his pistol and running back into the town, joining the rest of the force in subduing the remainder of the Green General's army.

He would have liked to think that Hisui Nagare's army would have fallen apart with their General dead but somehow the enemy force had remained cohesive until the very end, taking their share of casualties from the United Colors. It hadn't been until hours later that Yata had been able to confirm that all of Homra was alive and accounted for, albeit in various states of injury. The Silver General's planes had been on hospital duty by then, transporting the most gravely injured to hospital and then returning for more, any soldier who could move recruited to help in the securing of prisoners and administering field medicine to their own wounded. Some members of the force had been dispatched in a futile attempt to find Hisui Nagare's second in command Mishakuji Yukari, who had disappeared in the chaos. Yata had seen the kid who had shot Saruhiko being led into a truck with the other prisoners of war and had turned away almost immediately, not quite trusting that he wouldn't try and cave the kid's face in if anything happened to Saruhiko.

Yata had spotted Munakata a few times from a distance as well, a bandage around his head and a grave look on his face, but Yata hadn't bothered to speak with him. The last thing Yata wanted to hear was praise for his 'successful' mission, not when he didn't know if Saruhiko was alive or dead.

Saruhiko had been lucky, the doctors had told him later, once Yata had finally been allowed to hitch a ride on one of the trucks to the hospital. The wound on his temple, another in his side, the wound in his leg bleeding so badly there had been initially some fears that it had torn an artery and that there would be nothing even the doctors could do.

“You're an idiot, you know,” Yata murmured quietly, one hand reaching out to touch Saruhiko's. There was still no movement from the figure on the bed in front of him, only that steady rise and fall of the chest indicating that there was still life left somewhere in that body.

It had been three days now, since Saruhiko had been brought in. In that time Yata had remained by Saruhiko's side, waiting. Munakata had been by several times, staring down at Saruhiko in thoughtful silence and not answering any of Yata's angry accusations of being the one who had caused all this in the first place. Several of the other Blues had come to check on Saruhiko as well, the lady Lieutenant along with some of the main force, all in various states of injury themselves. Most of them hadn't even so much as looked at him, though the Lieutenant had quietly told him to remember to get some rest and something to eat before he drove Kusanagi to distraction. Kusanagi had come to check on them both, bringing Anna with him, and even a few other members of Homra – they didn't understand, of course, why Yata insisted on staying by Saruhiko's side, but no one suggested he leave.

Saruhiko could wake up at any time, after all, and Yata wanted to be by his side when that happened.

“I'm not gonna forgive you if you die on me.” It made him feel better somehow, saying it out loud. It made the room feel a little less hollow anyway, words echoing off the sterile walls. “Dammit, Saruhiko...what am I supposed to do if you die?”

Saruhiko didn't answer, and Yata's hand tightened over his.

“You don't tell me anything,” Yata continued. “Even after all this...you know I won't get it if you don't say it, right? But you still don't say anything. If you'd just asked me to come after you the first time I would've done it. I would've gone after you a hundred times, you idiot. Look what happens when I leave you alone.”

Yata's face felt wet and he rubbed irritably at it with his fist.

“ _That's why you lose things, again and again.”_ The hole where his left eye should be suddenly burned and Yata hunched his shoulders.

“I don't get you, you know,” Yata murmured. “You say shit like that all the time, telling me to hold tighter when _you're_ the one who doesn't hold onto anything. Didn't we mean anything to you? Didn't _I?_ After all the shit we've been through, are you really going to give up on me _now_?”

“...Noisy.” The word was soft and hoarse but enough to make Yata sit up straight. The hand underneath his twitched slightly.

“Saruhiko?” Yata felt a lump in his throat and couldn't even bother to hide it. “H-hey, are you awake? Saruhiko?”

“How could I sleep with you being so pathetic, Misaki.” The words were harsh but the tone was not – he sounded _tired,_ Yata thought, as though even the effort of mocking Yata was too much for Saruhiko to manage. Saruhiko's eyes were still half-closed and his head lolled wearily to one side as if he wasn't quite sure where he was.

“Don't call me pathetic.” Yata tightened his hand over Saruhiko's, gripped it tight as if Saruhiko would disappear out from under him if he let go. “You're the one in the hospital bed here, monkey.”

“Tch.” Saruhiko gave a quiet click of his tongue and shifted as if to sit up, then fell back with a wince of pain. Yata touched his shoulder lightly, keeping him down.

“You lost a lot of blood.” His voice was growing steadier the more he talked and Yata forced himself to stay calm. Saruhiko was awake, at least. That was something. “Do you remember what happened?”

Saruhiko stared up at the ceiling for a long moment, blinking slowly as if trying to remember.

“You were shot by the Greens,” Yata supplied. “We just got to you in time. You...you could have died. The doctor said you were lucky to keep your leg.” Yata paused, wondering if he should say anything more, and then nodded to himself as he continued. He'd wanted to know too, after all, at that time. “The—the wound was pretty bad. You're probably gonna walk with a limp now.”

“Mmm.” Saruhiko accepted that without much visible surprise, but one hand reached up as if to touch the patch over Yata's eye. “Pointless.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Yata said hoarsely. “You _saved_ everyone, you stupid self-sacrificing idiot! You could have--”

“I carried out my mission, nothing more,” Saruhiko said coldly. “Don't lump me in with a sentimental idiot like you, Misaki. I'm not a person who can save anyone. I just did what I was ordered to.” His hand brushed Yata's face this time, just below his left eye, tracing the bottom edge of the scar there. “I'm not an idiot who sacrifices himself for the sake of his _comrades._ ”

“I didn't do this for my comrades,” Yata said, grabbing onto his wrist. “I did it for _you,_ dumbass. And—and I don't regret doing it either. Not even now.”

“You should,” Saruhiko said flatly. His voice sounded a little foggy still, as if he wasn't quite fully awake. “You shouldn't have ever done that for me. I didn't ask you to do it.”

“Do you have to _ask_ for someone to care about you?” Yata said. “What the hell, Saruhiko? Weren't we in this together from the start? Who the hell else would I give an eye for, if it wasn't gonna be you?”

“That's what you say _now,_ ” Saruhiko murmured. “Don't think I don't know better, Misaki. This hand of yours--” He pulled his wrist out of Yata's grip as roughly as he could manage. “You're always trying to make up for it, right? For those people you couldn't save. I'm not going to be your little sister for you, so you can feel better about yourself.”

“Is that all you think you were to me?” Yata demanded. “I—I mean...yeah, I regret it. I regret that I couldn't save any of the people I cared about...Mom, Minoru, Megumi...Totsuka-san and Mikoto-san. But you're not – you weren't ever a replacement for them, Saruhiko! You were more than that to me, you were always--”

“That's why you don't understand anything, Misaki,” Saruhiko said. “'More than that?' That's exactly why I left. Do you want me to thank you, for getting yourself mutilated for my sake? You're an idiot if that's what you think.”

“I'm not mutilated, Saruhiko,” Yata said quietly. “It's just an eye. I'd give it up a hundred times for you, if that's what it took.”

“You're so stupid, Misaki.” Saruhiko's voice was far away again, almost lost. “Just another dark tunnel I can't get out of. I had to leave before any more of that light went out.”

“Wait...did you think I was gonna die or something?” Yata asked. Saruhiko inclined his head just a bit to look at him but his eyes were unfocused.

“It doesn't matter if I give my life up.” Saruhiko seemed to be looking at something far away, even as his eyes were fixed on Yata. “This is a war zone, right? So it doesn't matter if it's me. But it was dark here until you came. It was dark, and you were like the moon, the stars. If the only way I could keep that was to keep you away, I would take it. If it was the only way to move forward and keep you from always reaching for things with those pathetic hands, from tearing yourself apart to save people who couldn't be saved...I would do whatever I could. I'd break us both apart, if that was what it took.”

“The _fuck_ it doesn't matter if it's you!” Yata's fingers dug into the palms of his hands. “What the hell makes you think your life is worth less than mine, huh?”

“Because it is.” Saruhiko said it as if it was an unimpeachable truth. “But you're a moron who can't see further than what's in front of you. I had to break it, for both our sakes.”

“Who said you got to decide that on your own?” Yata's shoulders shook, hands clenched tight and Saruhiko turned away from him. “Who the hell told you to decide that for the both of us?”

“Someone had to,” Saruhiko said darkly. His eyes were slightly glassy and Yata wondered if he had a fever, if that was the thing that had finally been able to tear all those hidden words from Saruhiko's throat. “You don't see anything at all, do you Misaki? Even when you had both eyes. You look forward all the time but you never see what's at your back. Did you really think I'd stay there forever watching you run yourself straight to an early death?”

“Why didn't you just _say_ something?” Yata leaned forward, tried to make Saruhiko look at him. Saruhiko's breathing was heavy and labored, thick with pain, and Yata almost wanted to fall back and let him rest, wait for another day to do this. But somehow he knew that if they didn't get it all out into the open air now they never would – that Saruhiko would sink back into his own silence and they'd go back to the way things had been before, and Yata didn't intend to lose him a _third_ time. “I'm not trying to get myself killed, Saruhiko. I just--”

“You're so pathetic, Misaki.” It wasn't Saruhiko's voice that stopped him but Saruhiko's hands, shaking as they brushed the eyepatch on Yata's face. It fell away and Yata felt Saruhiko's fingers press against the scar over his closed eye, moving slowly as if to memorize every contour of his face. “You keep yelling about heroes all the time, about saving people. You never even noticed I was still there, in the dark. Maybe if I left, you finally would.”

“I always knew where you were, Saruhiko.” Yata's hands pressed against Saruhiko's forehead, gently. There was a little heat there, as expected, and Yata brushed a bit of sweat off Saruhiko's skin. “Maybe—maybe it took me a while to know what I was looking at, but I was always watching you. Remember when we used to sit there in that warehouse and you would draw all that stuff on the floors, the star maps? I thought that was really cool. When I couldn't see the stars I thought about the ones you wrote on the floors. It—it made me feel a little better. Stupid, right? But it made me feel better.”

“You are stupid,” Saruhiko murmured. “You never did manage to hate me properly, did you Misaki?”

“No,” Yata said quietly. “Did you really want me to?”

“I don't know.” Saruhiko closed his eyes, breathing deep as his fingers continued to trace the line of Yata's scars. “There wasn't any exit, in that place, no way out except climbing over your body and I wanted--” He gave another shuddering breath, sounding almost _lost,_ as if he couldn't find the way in his own mind. “I wanted you to stop being such an idiot and think about yourself instead of everyone around you. I wanted to hang on to you, and I wanted you to let go of me.”

“How the hell am I supposed to let go of you?” Yata said. “You're—you're the one guy _can't_ let go of, you know? Even if I can't hold on to anyone else I figured you'd at least always be there and then you _left._ ”

“That's how you get hurt.” Saruhiko's lip curled. “I'm not going to be the one whose hand you hold because it's the only one left, Misaki. That's how you always are, isn't it – you don't want anyone to leave, but do you really care if they stay?”

“The fuck does that mean?” Yata snapped. “Of course I cared, you idiot! You were supposed to be by my side. Weren't we partners?”

“And that's all,” Saruhiko murmured. “You and your flimsy words, Misaki. 'Partners.' 'Comrades.' I won't be just that, just another hand for you to hold until it's torn from your grasp. I'd rather be 'traitor' than all of that. At least then I was something different in your world.”

“But that's not what you are, Saruhiko,” Yata said quietly. “You're the asshole who couldn't just say when you were unhappy. You're the idiot who thought going on a suicide mission for everyone else made you a traitor. You're not any of that, Saruhiko. You're more than that, to me.”

“Am I?” Saruhiko said. Yata could see his chest rising and falling in short shallow motions and Yata's hands pressed down against Saruhiko's skin. He could feel the pulse fluttering there again, that heartbeat moving rapidly even though Saruhiko's movements seemed slow and sluggish.

“You are.” Yata's voice was firm, unshakeable. “We aren't gonna break, Saruhiko. We never were. You're not just a hand for me to hold, you moron. You're....you're _stars._ Patterns on the floor that I can still see. I can't remember half the battle formations no matter how many times you read them to me, but I remember the patterns you painted, you know? Because it was _you,_ and I can't...no matter what, you're the one thing I'm not ever gonna let go of. When it's dark, I can look down and there you are, showing me the way home. Even if you let go of me again and again, I'm not letting go of your fucking hand. Not again, or ever.”

He could feel Saruhiko's heartbeat still and Yata suddenly remembered it again, running through an alley while planes flew overhead. Remembered Saruhiko pressing him up against a brick wall and telling him to stay silent, and that small breath of space between them that Yata hadn't dared to cross.

An expanse of space, unseen but always there, a wide dark stretch like a map of the universe scrawled into the floor. Yata could remember Saruhiko's smile when they'd talked about taking on the world, and the hollow cast to his face the day Yata had awakened in an infirmary with only one eye.

_(And somewhere, hidden in the fog of memory, a haze of pain broken by the feeling of lips closing over his.)_

“Misaki...” Saruhiko breathed low, mouth shaking on the syllables of the word, and there were constellations written in his eyes that Yata couldn't map even if he had a thousand years to plot them.

_This is a battle line._

_Cross it._

Closing space bit by bit, and Yata leaned down to press his lips against Saruhiko's.

There was a moment of hesitation, of counterattack as though Saruhiko was about to push him away. Yata pressed his hand against Saruhiko's, held tight, and suddenly Saruhiko was kissing him back almost desperately, as though he couldn't breathe except to take the air from Yata's mouth.

“I'll protect you,” Yata found himself whispering between the workings of his mouth. “If you leave I'll go after you, okay? If you let go, I'll grab your other hand. So stop letting go of me all the time. Let me hold onto you.”

Saruhiko didn't reply but his hands tightened around Yata's, and his heartbeat echoed strong in Yata's ears, each beat a promise.

_Stay. Stay. Stay._

_XIX. scars_

He did have a limp, in the end.

Fushimi supposed he should regret it, the loss of something he couldn't get back, but somehow he couldn't quite bring himself to care. Munakata had conveyed his sincerest apologies for the injury – along his praise for the completion of the mission, and some kind of medal of valor that Fushimi had thrown against the wall the moment Munakata placed it in his hands. Munakata hadn't complained about _that_ either, just smiled inscrutably and noted that Fushimi was healing well. They'd talked about other things too, the words Munakata had spoken that night in the emergency outpost, and something that hadn't been exactly an apology but which Fushimi suspected was meant to be seen as one. Fushimi had accepted it either way, with a nod of his head and a click of his tongue, because he was beginning to realize that with all the weights he'd allowed himself to carry that was the one he was most eager to be rid of.

He hadn't been discharged from the army, only sent to light duty for now. There was still work to do, after all – Hisui Nagare was dead but his army was vast and still active, and Yukari's whereabouts unknown as well. Munakata seemed unconcerned about the limp, only noting that Fushimi should remain on leave until his head wound had healed.

It was an irritant, though, a reminder he didn't particularly want. He wasn't a child learning to walk again and he didn't need the pitying stares he knew would be thrown his way.

Misaki hadn't pitied him, though. Misaki had found him a cane with a hidden knife in the hilt. Misaki had looked at his leg and shrugged, unconcerned.

“Well, how about I just be your right leg and you can be my left eye?”

It was a stupid compromise, just the sort of thing he'd expect an idiot like Misaki to say. But he'd nodded at the time and reached for Misaki's hand, and Misaki's fingers had curled around his.

They'd protect each other, somehow. He didn't quite believe it, but he was trying to.

“ _I'll protect you,”_ Misaki had whispered between kisses, that day in the hospital and then again and again later on, no matter how often Fushimi told him to stop protecting people, and Misaki would look a bit sad and laugh and promise to work on that if Fushimi worked on saying what he actually meant instead of the opposite.

Fushimi didn't need words of protection, because he knew they couldn't always promise to protect each other in this world – knew it every time he remembered a cold day in the snow and the look on Munakata's face as he saluted a coffin draped in red – but he curved his body against Misaki's anyway, entwined their fingers together, and counted the marks on Misaki's body.

Misaki's wounds were a back full of burns, a tattoo on his chest, a broken up heart and the stitches that held it together, a scar on his palm and a lost left eye, and above it all the marks of Fushimi's hands on his own as they held each other.

And Fushimi's own wounds, a dark cellar in his mind and a torn apart mark of red flames on his chest, an injured thigh and a scattering of powder burns on his forehead and sometimes he found himself thinking that when he died they'd find Misaki's name carved on his bones. He would take that, would take all of it, the blood and the burns and the scattering of scars, all for the press of Misaki's lips against his own.

Not a scar, not this time, but still: permanent.


End file.
